


Some Sort of Neighborly

by shipping_goggles



Series: A Place to Call Home [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipping_goggles/pseuds/shipping_goggles
Summary: Modern!AU Captain Swan. They’re not neighbors, not exactly, and they’re not friends either. It’s pretty hard to find reasons to bump into the woman who lives next door to your best friend, especially after your only interaction with her has been waking up on her couch one Saturday morning. Sequel to Rude Awakening.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting old fics here for organizational purposes -- though this story isn't quite finished yet, and I may or may not be posting this (and all of my other fics) here because I have a definite time frame for updating through completion ;) Chapter completed: 08/06/2014

Her last name is Swan.

He discovers this through completely innocent means, of course: there’s a stack of mail sitting on Robin’s counter when he lets himself in after the most confusing morning of his life, and since he’s in no mood to calmly scramble some eggs when his adrenaline is pumping like he’s just run a mile, he decides to shuffle through it while he waits for Robin to wake up. It turns out that not all of the letters are addressed to Robin Loxley in 3A, and for longer than he’d care to admit, he stares at the name above the line  _Apartment 3B_ , trying not to smile.  _Emma Swan_. The name suits her.

“Why do you have Emma Swan’s mail?” he asks when, ten minutes later, Robin blearily makes his way into the kitchen with a horrible bed head and Green Arrow pajama pants.

“Why were you looking through my mail?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Robin groans as he crouches to rummage through his dishwasher for the skillet. “The postman is a bloody idiot. I get her mail all the time. He confuses everyone on this floor.”

“So you’ve met her before? When you give her mail back, I mean.” For a second, he feels a little offended that Robin had never even bothered to introduce him to this woman he barely knew existed until less than an hour ago.

“No, I just slide it under her door – and how do you know Emma Swan, anyway?”

Killian frowns, shifting in his seat at the bar. Robin’s always been amused by his drunken antics, but this is this first time he’s felt even a little embarrassed. “I may have accidentally broken into her apartment instead of yours last night.”

“Really?” Robin snorts, finally turning around to give him a skeptical look. “I’m surprised she didn’t call the cops to throw your ass in jail.”

“I don’t think she needed to. She probably could have beaten me up, if she wanted,” he says, recalling the way she had practically dragged him to the door and out of her apartment. She had a good arm.  _Good aim, too_ , he thinks ruefully, and he rubs the spot on his forehead where one of his shirt buttons had hit him when she’d thrown his shirt into his face, just now starting to feel the sting.

“I bet she could. Apparently she’s a bail bondsperson. She probably deals with crooks worse than you on a daily basis.”

“What?” The jibe flies right over his head at this new piece of information. “How do you know? I thought you said you’ve never met her before.”

“I haven’t,” Robin says slowly, and Killian feels his heart sink when he realizes that Robin’s probably seeing right through him. “Aurora from 2A told me. She said she’d helped her and her husband with a case.”

“Right.” He nods with what he hopes looks like vague curiosity, although Robin’s still watching him with narrowed eyes, and slides off the barstool and into the kitchen. Making a huge effort to seem casual, he opens the refrigerator to pretend like he’s getting the eggs out when he’s actually hiding a small grin. Bloody hell, no wonder she was such a hardass. He’s suddenly very glad he didn’t test her patience further, because from what it seems like now, she could have done much worse than leave a button imprint on his forehead.

When he closes the refrigerator door, Robin’s standing right behind it, arms folded across his chest.

“No.”

“What?” he says, bewildered.

“No, you are not getting involved with my next-door neighbor.”

“What the hell? I’m not. Why would you even think that?”

“You have that  _look_  on your face,” Robin says with a frown. “The one that says you’re going to do something you know you probably shouldn’t be doing.”

“I'm  _not_  going to do anything,” Killian insists, all the while knowing that’s at least a partial lie, because he’s not sure exactly  _what_  he’s going to do about Emma Swan and how the image of her in his head makes his stomach flip over in his body. “And anyway, why do you care? You’ve never had a problem with me sleeping around before.”

Robin lets out a derisive snort, but he still looks mildly concerned. “I still don’t. I’d just prefer not to be kept up all night with loud moaning and banging on the adjoining wa—”

“Bugger off,” Killian says with an eye-roll, shoving the eggs into Robin’s arms, but then a vivid image of Emma Swan naked and on her back suddenly drifts through his mind, and he barely has time to wonder exactly what kinds of noises she makes when she’s wanton and needy before he feels his groin tightening and knows it’s time to head far, far away from that line of thought. “She was kind when she didn’t have to be, and I’m just thankful she didn’t call the police. It was just a question about her mail. Worry about your own bloody love life.”

“You’re adorable,” Robin replies sarcastically. Thankfully, Roland takes that opportunity to tear through the apartment with a loud squeal, barreling into Killian’s leg with a force that makes it feel like he’s been hit by a small, child-sized train, and the topic of neighbors and whether or not they’re off-limits is immediately dropped.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t spend the next week thinking about it, though.

He’s not sure what it is about this woman, but now that he’s seen her more than just in passing, now that he’s talked to her and knows how she looks when she smiles at him, he can’t get her out of his mind. Maybe he’s a little intrigued by her, too – maybe it’s the memory of that soft look merging with the memory of her tough attitude and this new knowledge that she’s a bail bondsperson that makes him wonder why she doesn’t seem comfortable when she isn’t on the offensive, wonder if she would have been as nice to him as she’d been if he was anyone else.

Unfortunately, he can’t ask Robin anything or he’d get even more suspicious (honestly, though, he has perfectly innocent intentions, but Robin would never believe that), and he’s not going to start showing up for dinner every night in hopes of “accidentally” running into her because then Robin would probably permanently kick him out. Besides, he doesn’t want to seem like a stalker, so for the week after meeting Emma Swan, he steadfastly refuses to change his visiting schedule.

He comes over for dinner on Wednesday. He and Robin go out for drinks on Friday, and he crashes on his couch through Saturday morning. Maybe he spends a little too long on Wednesday night wondering if she has a nine-to-five schedule and then calculating his commute to arrive around the time she might usually get home, but neither she nor Robin need to know that.

By the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, he cracks. This is ridiculous. He’s a fucking grown man; if he wants to talk to a woman, he can sure as hell just do it without all of the secrecy. Or – maybe just less secrecy. Robin doesn’t need to know how much this is driving him crazy.

And maybe the universe is on his side, because around half-past five, a lot of voices and occasional crashes start coming from behind the wall of her apartment, and he can tell Robin’s getting a little irritated by how he keeps turning up the volume on the baseball game, slouched into the couch with Roland asleep on his lap.

Killian looks over at him from the armchair carefully. “I can go tell her to quiet down, if you want.”

“Hm? Yeah, sure,” Robin replies absently, reaching for the remote again.

Giddy from this wonderful stroke of luck, Killian rushes out the door and into the hallway, making a beeline for her apartment. It’s only after he’s knocked that he realizes he probably should have checked his appearance, since he’s literally been lazing around Robin’s all day in his pajamas. Shit. He’s still wearing his pajamas. In a flare of panic, he wonders if anyone had heard him, if he has enough time to run back next door and change, but then he hears her through the door, and it makes him nervous for an entirely different reason.

“Ruby, can you get that?”

“You don’t have time for visitors,” another voice says, and then the door swings open to reveal a pretty (and, strangely, somehow familiar) brunette in a t-shirt and pajama shorts.

Well, maybe his choice of attire isn’t too strange after all.

“Hi,” the brunette, who he assumes is Ruby, says, her lips curling into what he suspects is a knowing smirk.

“Hi,” he says slowly, unsure of what to make of this development. He supposes it makes sense that Emma has guests, given the number of different voices he’d heard through the wall, and yet he hadn’t been prepared to confront anyone else but her.

“Who is it?” Emma’s voice comes from somewhere around the corner, and then she steps into the doorway’s line of sight, dressed in a tight-fitting red dress and towering heels that make her legs look fucking amazing.

Killian forces himself to swallow.

_Fuck_.

* * *

_Hey beautiful._

For some reason, his words to her are the first that come to mind when she sees him in the doorway.

Not that she’s thinking them about him, of course – well, maybe a little, because he’s probably the only person who could make a slight bed head and threadbare sweatpants look as ridiculously attractive as he does. It’s mostly because she hasn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him all week, during which she’d forgotten how  _blue_  his eyes were, and seeing them now brings the memory of that first encounter flashing to the forefront of her mind.

_Damn it_. She had hoped to keep Killian and their little morning adventure a secret for as long as possible, so it figures he’d show up just when she has company – and with Ruby’s wolf nose for this kind of thing (although she’s not even sure what  _this kind of thing_  is, exactly), she knows she’s already figured at least part of it out.

Fleetingly, she hopes she can pretend like she doesn’t know him, but that idea is immediately crushed when he opens his mouth.

“Afternoon, Swan.”

“Hey,” she replies uncertainly. Ruby’s eyes are darting between them with a growing understanding, and it makes her uncomfortable in all the wrong ways. It’s almost worse than how Killian’s eyes flit down her body just once and make her suddenly feel like she’s not wearing enough clothes, although she’s not sure if that’s entirely his fault.

“Um.” He meets her gaze, then looks over to Ruby. “Not to pry, love, but can I ask what the dramatic difference in attire is about?”

“Emma’s got a date,” Ruby says with entirely too much glee.

“It’s not a date,” Emma corrects her quickly, and maybe she imagines the way an unreadable expression flickers across his face before he raises an eyebrow. “I’m working tonight.”

He snorts, but it sounds more amused than condescending. “Seems like you work at a fun place.”

“I’m a bail bondsperson. It’s a fake date. I’m trying to catch someone who skipped bail,” she clarifies. She’s not sure why she’s standing here explaining this to him when she’s already going to be really late, especially since she barely knows him so it shouldn’t even matter whether or not he knows the truth.

Luckily, another voice drifts from the kitchen just in time to save her from thinking too much into it. “Emma, would you mind picking up more popcorn on your way home? This is your last bag.”

Only Mary Margaret could tear through her food like a pregnant woman (which, it turns out, is pretty recently accurate) and still find a way to make requests sound nice. “Sure,” Emma calls back, eyes still on Killian, who sends her smile that has a small current zipping down her spine.

“Sleepover?” he guesses.

“More or less,” she says. “Girl’s night. I have the biggest television.”

“And yet you’re not joining them?”

“I’m going to, later.” For some reason, the words come out defensive even though it’s none of his business. “It doesn’t look like it’ll be too difficult of a job.”

“I’d imagine not,” he says with a solemn nod, but by the way his eyes drift and he blinks twice before they refocus, she feels like the gesture is more in approval than in agreement. Maybe that shouldn’t feel as much like a compliment as it does. “Anyway, your neighbor Robin, bad-tempered idiot that he is, kindly requests that you keep the noise level down. He’s trying to drown himself in baseball so he doesn’t have to think about his ex.”

Robin – she still hasn’t met the guy, but she remembers the name from the previous week and from the letters that keep showing up in her mailbox, and she feels vaguely embarrassed that this is the first impression he’s getting of her. “That won’t be an issue,” Emma assures him. To make her point, she shoots a meaningful look at Ruby, who shrugs, still looking too thrilled to be comforting, but Killian seems to be appeased.

“Good that. In that case, best of luck with your… date, Swan.” His lips twitch upwards in a small smirk, and she’s forcefully reminded of the suggestive expression on his face before she’d pushed him out of her apartment the last time. Before she can make a comment about how he must be asking for her to slam the door in his face again, he nods at Ruby and catches her eye one more time, then turns and disappears into the hallway.

She knows Ruby has the decency to at least wait to hear a door snap shut before asking questions, but what she doesn’t expect is Mary Margaret, who, having not been present for the entirety of the conversation, is admittedly completely innocent in this, to shout from the kitchen again: “Who was that?”

“No one. A neighbor’s friend,” she says quickly, because Ruby’s closing the door with a wide grin, and she darts forward to wedge it open with her foot because she doesn’t have the time to deal with them getting on her case right now. For some reason, she doesn’t think  _it wasn’t a big deal, I conveniently forgot to tell you about finding an extremely attractive stranger asleep on my couch_ is going to cut it anymore. “I’m leaving. Bye.”

“We’re talking about this later!” Ruby calls after her as she grabs her handbag and all but flees out of her apartment, slamming the door shut behind her.

To her vague horror, when she turns towards the stairwell, Killian is standing in the doorway of 3A, hand on the doorknob and eyes locked on hers. The bastard has the nerve to look like he’s trying too hard not to laugh.

“ _Don’t_ ,” she warns him, and it takes her until she gets down to the first floor to stop feeling the lingering burn of his gaze on her face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter completed: 08/26/2014

He’s beginning to think the universe is much less generous than he’d thought.

It’s now been two weeks since he’s last seen Emma Swan. Not that he’s keeping track or anything, but after two Saturdays in a row of running into her completely (mostly) by chance, each followed by a week (more) of being plagued by the memories of her in those skimpy pajama shorts and that show-stoppingly indecent red dress, he’s lamenting the lack of routine, for the first part at least. More often than he’s proud of, Robin’s words about being _kept up all night_ drift into his mind unwarranted, which brings an entirely new element to his already inappropriate daydreams about her wonderful choice of attire on both occasions, and he’s even less proud of how many cold showers he’d had to take in the first few days alone.

He knows he has no business thinking this way, but he’s just the tiniest bit glad she’s not engaging in those kinds of noise-inducing extracurricular activities with someone else. When her friend – Ruby, he remembers – had mentioned something about a date, he’d felt a twinge of jealousy he knew he had no right to feel, then a small ripple of relief when she’d clarified that it was an act for her job. He later pretends neither of these sentiments even crossed his mind; he’s all too aware that he doesn’t have a stake in her life, since he barely knows anything about her – much to his disappointment, Ruby’s interesting revelation that she hadn’t mentioned him to her friends at all failed to yield fruitful, hear-through-the-wall kinds of results, so he has no idea if she even remembers his name – but that doesn’t change the fact that he’d very much like to.

Robin is, as usual, of little to no help. Granted, Killian hadn’t expected him to be a wealth of information, given that they _are_ fairly new neighbors (seriously, though, not really – he doubts Robin’s gone a month and a half without ever seeing the woman who lives next door to him, and Killian suspects he’s withholding any new information because of his completely poorly-judged distrust), but he hasn’t so much as breathed a word of Emma Swan since their awkward conversation the morning after he literally broke his way into her life.

Which brings Killian to his current predicament. The Wednesday after the two week mark, he “unintentionally” leaves his leather jacket in Robin’s apartment, and at the time Robin had been too preoccupied with getting Roland to bed to notice that, for the back end of summer, a thin t-shirt wasn’t going to cut the train ride home. The afternoon of the next day, he stands in front of the diner around the corner from the complex, turning the spare key over and over in his palm and wondering how on earth he’d managed to be nothing but brazen the morning they met. All he has to do is suck it up and pay Robin an off-schedule but completely excusable visit like he’d planned, right down to the tiny detail of Robin working until late tonight (leaving Killian to pick Roland up from preschool later) which means he won’t even be home to witness this haphazard attempt at interacting with this woman anyway. He’d purposely made this opening for himself – after two weeks of the universe refusing to do it for him, that is – and now he’s honestly considering turning tail, sitting down for a coffee, and trying his damnedest to forget how much he’s worried he’s being extremely obvious, which worries him even more because this is stupid, and wanting to see someone has never been a _crime_ , has it?

Finally, he grits his teeth, ignores Granny’s _are you coming in or not?_ glare through the shop window, and firmly strides to the end of the block. He can’t very well start feeling anxious every time he comes over to Robin’s, especially when he’s trying to convince himself it isn’t for more reasons than one.

To his complete and utter bafflement, the first thing he sees when he turns the corner is Emma Swan sitting outside the door to the building, tapping away at her phone, long bare legs (jean shorts truly are a blessing with this woman) crossed on top of a huge cardboard box.

For a moment, his stomach feels like it’s doing a violent somersault, because really, he’d expected to have at least a little time after knocking to steel himself (although, he realizes suddenly, he should have done a little more preparation about thirty seconds ago, since he wouldn’t have had any reason to go paying her a house call otherwise). When he gets closer, he notices a minute furrow between her brows as if she’s concentrating or annoyed – a familiar gesture, then – and that the light glints off of her hair and makes it look like sun-woven silk.

“Hello again, Swan,” he says quietly, biting back a grin at how she jumps nevertheless. Her eyes lock on his almost right away, and he swears he sees her swallow thickly.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Killian, I almost dropped my phone.”

“That’s quite the parcel you have there,” he says with barely concealed delight that, yeah, he’s somehow significant enough to warrant her remembering his name right away after two (three?) weeks. Or maybe she just has excellent memory, in which case he didn’t just think that.

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous,” she agrees. “It’s also not something I’m carrying up to my apartment by myself. The postman fucking called me down here because he was too lazy, the asshole.”

She spouts off a few more choice insults that would have a sailor cringing at her colorful vocabulary, but it just makes him even more amused. “What is it?”

“Minifridge. My old one broke, and my normal fridge is _tiny_.”

In a sudden surge of audacity, the words fly from his mouth before he even realizes it: “Need help?”

She looks startled. “What? From you?”

“Sure, why not? I’m heading in that direction anyway.”

“Not taking the window this time?” There’s the faintest hint of a smile on her face, and it makes the summer sun on his skin just a little warmer.

“Those were… extenuating circumstances.”

“You were drunk.”

“My point exactly.” At this, it looks like she’s trying to hide a real smile, which has his heart skipping a beat. “But I’m sober enough to take the stairs now, along with your package, if you’d like.”

“It’s heavy, though,” she says, as if she hadn’t just been irritated at the postman who had given her that excuse. “Besides, one of my friends said he’d swing by to help me.”

“And where is said friend?” he asks, wondering with a vague sense of dread whether this is a friend or a _friend_.

“Stuck in traffic half an hour away, or so he _says_ ,” she spits bitterly.

“I’d be happy to help, in that case,” he offers her, although her answer doesn’t really reassure him either way.

“No, honestly, it’s fine –”

“Think of it as the thanks I owe you,” he says quickly, “for that wonderful night in your apartment.”

He’d almost forgotten how pretty the blush is on her cheeks – almost, but not quite – and he has to say while he likes both patient and forceful sides of Emma Swan, nothing beats her when she’s flustered. “You have to stop saying that. People will get the wrong impression.”

“Did your friend Ruby get the wrong impression?”

There’s only a tiny bit of ulterior motive behind the question, which makes the way her pink lips curve into an ill-suppressed smirk all the more confusing, although the fact that she’s probably about to turn the tables on him doesn’t go over his head at all. “No, actually. Ruby knows you’re single. She recognized you from her grandmother’s diner down the street.”

For a second, he’s floored. “What?”

“Yeah, apparently there’s a limit to the number of times you can eat dinner alone in one month before people start judging you.” She rolls her eyes, and although he’s still concerned that it’s somehow that easy to tell how just single he is from his eating habits, something in him wonders if she’s reacting like that because she can relate.

“Does she work at Granny’s? I’ve never seen her there before,” he admits, which is a little worrisome considering how often he makes the trek all the way to the neighborhood just for this one eatery.

“She… recently got a bit of a makeover, of sorts. Maybe you’d recognize her with dyed red hair, crazy makeup?” Now that she mentions it, the pieces are clicking together a little more gracefully, although it’s still pretty hard to equate the two images of this Ruby person in his head. “In any case,” she jumps off of the box, gesturing with a small smile, “I’m definitely not waiting around in the sun for another half-hour. If you’re going to be a gentleman, it’s all yours.”

Feeling inexplicably as though he’s just accomplished something significant, he makes all the way it up the front steps of the building before nearly dropping the package and crushing his foot. It’s the first time he’s heard anything resembling a laugh from her, and he resists the urge to test his luck one more time just to hear it again.

* * *

 The chances of her running into him again were already slim to none.

She had already accepted that when she’d resolved herself to avoid him at all costs because, sure enough, she got _hell_ from Ruby and Mary Margaret when she returned that Saturday night (mostly from Ruby; Mary Margaret had just watched with a knowing expression on her face that was somehow even more concerning). On top of how already muddled she felt whenever the memory of his stupid smartass grin chose to flash its way to the forefront of her mind, that only strengthened her conclusion that Killian Jones was Bad News wrapped up in an absurdly good-looking package (partially _because_ he was wrapped up in such an absurdly good-looking package), and that she would do well to either move somewhere far away until the memory of his distracted gaze over her figure stops making her hot and bothered in the worst way, or keep to herself when it comes to this Robin person and hope to god she never has to see his smirking, eyebrow-quirking friend ever again.

Well, okay, in retrospect, given that Robin _is_ her next-door neighbor, maybe it’s not that big of a surprise after all. Still, though, of all the circumstances in which she’d expected to see Killian again, her sitting outside on top of a boxed minifridge definitely wasn’t one of them.

He huffs his way up to her (their?) floor in an impressive show of bravado, but she can see the way he’s sweating in the summer heat and the muscles in his arms are straining, both only a little distracting because thankfully he chose to wear a black long-sleeved t-shirt today, which is both concealing and opaque when wet. (But also, _fuck_ , he chose to wear a black long-sleeved t-shirt today, with fitting dark jeans no less, and she’s suddenly very glad she started up the stairs ahead of him because otherwise she’d definitely be staring at his ass.)

Finally, he deposits the box in front of her apartment door with a grunt, wiping his hands on his jeans, and turns his gaze towards her.

“Um, do you – it’s still pretty heavy so I could –” He gestures awkwardly, a little out of breath in a way that she refuses to find sexy.

“You can help me bring it inside,” she says against her better judgment as she turns to unlock the door, “and in return, I’ll get you a drink.”

“That defeats the purpose of me doing this to thank you,” he protests, but she’s already jamming the door open and heading into the kitchen to see if she has any leftover beers.

“The thank-you was bringing it all the way upstairs,” she calls over her shoulder. “The drink is for you putting it by the breakfast bar bar, under the counter.”

She hears a small scuffle, then the sounds of him lugging the package down the hallway and into the living room, bordered on one side by the kitchen. He sets it down again with a thud and a whoosh of breath, and when she turns around with a cold Blue Moon in her hand, he’s stretching out his back, looking around at her apartment with interest, particularly at the couch he’d seemed so fond of nearly a month ago.

“You’ve been here before; nothing’s changed since then,” she says, handing him the open bottle in what briefly reminds her of the last time they’d proverbially shared a drink – or, rather, when she’d shoved a glass of water into his hands to help him with his morning hangover.

“I know, I’m just –” He cuts off abruptly as he turns to accept the bottle from her, and she suddenly regrets whatever the hell possessed her to let him into her apartment again, because there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and on the column of his tanned throat down to where she spies a hint of dark chest hair over the top of his v-neck, and the sight makes her feel breathless as if she was the one who’d just carried a hundred-pound refrigerator up two flights of stairs. He meets her gaze readily, holds it for a moment without speaking, which makes the silence about as thick as the humid air, but she suspects that has nothing to do with why he’d suddenly stopped talking. “Thank you, love,” he says at last, raising the bottle to her and settling into one of the stools at the breakfast bar. He takes a long swig, during which she turns back to the kitchen to start rummaging around in her cabinets just to avoid looking at him, before he speaks again. “I’m more of a rum man, myself, but I appreciate the gesture.”

“It’s not a gesture if you’ve already taken it,” she says, knowing without even looking away from where she’s filling a mug with water that he’s just teasing her again. “Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Well, seeing as I am neither, I’ll just – are you making hot chocolate?” he asks suddenly as she puts the mug in the microwave, sets the timer, and faces him with a package of hot chocolate mix in her hand and a look daring him to challenge her on her face.

“Yes?”

“It’s a bloody sauna in here, Swan. You’re mad.”

“To be fair, I didn’t just go for a mini-workout up the stairs,” she points out.

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue the issue further, and the fact that he seems relatively nonplussed about her hot chocolate drinking habit makes him rise just a tiny bit in her esteem. Instead, he brings up something she didn’t think he’d still remember about her from the last time they met: “You know, I’m rather surprised you didn’t just bully the postman into bringing this up for you. I’m sure you must be good at getting people to do what you want in your line of work.”

“Okay, first of all, I don’t _bully_ people. Negotiation is not _bullying_ ,” she insists to his smug face. “Secondly, I had no qualms about talking other people, if not the postman, into doing my dirty work for me.”

“You didn’t talk me into it,” he tells her indignantly, shaking the bottle in her general direction. “I offered!”

“You offered to bring it upstairs, but I bribed you into bringing it inside with alcohol,” she says, biting back a smile at how easily he is to rile up.

“I offered that time too! I offered both times.”

“Is that what you were trying to say? You were so out of breath I couldn’t understand you.”

“It was a fair bit of manual labor, Swan,” he says, narrowing his eyes, although his mouth is curved good-naturedly; he knocks the top of the minifridge box with his foot. “I put myself at great personal risk to get this bloody thing here.” At this, she laughs, and she reaches up to grab her mug out of the beeping microwave, stirs in the mix with a dash of cinnamon before she takes a sip. He throws her an interested look, but she doesn’t give him a chance to comment.

“Occupational hazard. It’s not uncommon.”

“As a bail bondsperson, maybe,” he scoffs. “I don’t deal with nearly as many on a daily basis.”

“What do you do?” she asks, genuinely curious when he gives a sort of half noncommittal shrug.

“I… I’m a musician, I guess,” and he has the nerve to sound embarrassed about it even though she’s vaguely impressed.

“Really? You sing?”

“And guitar, yeah,” he says, scratching behind his ear as he drops his gaze; he’s definitely blushing, and it jumpstarts the butterflies in her stomach. This is literally the first time she’s seen him anywhere near uncomfortable – even after he’d woken up on her couch that morning, he was more apologetic than awkward – and it makes her feel guilty for no good reason at all.

“No crazed fangirls posing as an occupational hazard though,” she quips, and he throws her a grateful look for bringing the subject back home. “So you must not be _that_ good.”

“Better than you, probably,” he replies, although he’s clearly joking now that they’re back on banter territory, so she’s not that offended especially because she knows it’s definitely true.

“I’m a secret shower singer, so I guess you’ll never find out.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Not if you’re planning to break into my apartment again,” she laughs, then wishes she hadn’t tested him when his grin turns devastatingly wicked.

“I’m sure I could find other ways that are much more fun,” he assures her, his eyes sweeping down her form in a way that has every inch of her skin prickling. Ridiculously enough, even though she knows he’s still joking, it feels like her tongue isn’t working properly anymore, and she must have been silent for a little too long because after a moment, he continues: “Alternatively, the walls are deceptively thin.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, thankful for the lifeline, “you’d probably find that fun anyway, seeing as you’ve already got one tick in the stalker category for breaking and en—”

Her phone suddenly starts buzzing in her back pocket, filling the air with a ringing that forcefully brings her back to reality – or, at least the reality where she remembers he’s not supposed to look as at home in her apartment as he does (a habit of his, she’s sure) and she’s not supposed to just be noticing that now. She puts her hot chocolate down, glances at the screen, then throws him an apologetic look that definitely should not be apologetic, because he shouldn’t even be here anyway.

“Urgent text?”

“Yeah,” she says, typing back a quick message. “My friend is coming up. He’s confused because there isn’t a package downstairs.”

“Finally got through that traffic, huh?”

“To be honest, he was probably busy sucking face with his girlfriend.” At his sudden shift in his seat, she looks up. “Ruby, from the other day, and from Granny’s. That’s Victor’s girlfriend. They just started dating, and their honeymoon phase is driving me nuts.”

He licks his lips, which, as brief as it is, is possibly the filthiest thing she’s ever seen and makes the heat pool low in her belly, then chuckles lowly.

“Perhaps I’d better leave, then?” As momentarily amused as she is that he’s turning it into a question, she’s more concerned about how, in a flash of what must be idiocy, she actually considers telling him to go ahead and stay. In the end, though, that’s exactly what has her nodding slowly, trying not to notice the way his face falls just a fraction when she does.

“Yeah, probably. You must have had something you came to Robin’s for, yeah? Sorry for keeping you.”

“Swan, please, it was my pleasure to come into your home and steal your liquor,” he says, sliding off the stool, and she follows him to the door while trying to suppress a smile.

“As it was my pleasure to coerce you into carrying up my heavy packages.”

She opens the door for him, and he just stands there, unsure, just as she is, of how exactly to end this conversation. It isn’t until she hears heavy footsteps echoing up the stairwell that she realizes she doesn’t have very much time at all to come up with anything witty, because if Victor sees what’s going on here, Ruby, Mary Margaret, and David will all know about it by sundown.

“Um. Later then. Thanks again.”

“You’re very wel—” She hadn’t known he was planning to say something in response or she wouldn’t have closed the door, and, mildly chagrined, she hears him chuckle faintly through the wood. At this point, she’s not too sure if she can just brush this under the _I’ll never see this guy again, so it doesn’t matter_ rug anymore, so instead she wonders if they’re set on a trend to end every conversation of theirs with a slammed door in his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter completed: 02/26/2015

It takes Killian until the third round of knocking to finally get a response.

“Hang on, hang on, _Jesus_ ,”he hears through the door. “Do you know what fucking time it—”

Her voice falters when the door swings open, and it takes everything in him to put on a wide grin and pretend his heart isn’t doing the same, because her hair’s a mess and she’s wearing sweatpants and he’s beyond flabbergasted at how she can still look so good even when he thinks she’s supposed to look bad.

“Morning, love,” he says cheerfully as she fixes him with a resigned look.

“Why am I not surprised it’s you?”

“I do have a penchant for giving you early morning surprises.”

“For some reason I thought it’d be a one-time thing,” she says, but she doesn’t seem to be quite as annoyed as he’d have expected any other neighbor of Robin’s to be at 9am on a Saturday. Granted, he’s not too keen on the fact that she still looks mildly pissed, but if this actually works, he’s not going to be one to complain. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time?”

“I… I need a place to hide,” he admits with what he hopes is his most pathetically endearing smile. Curiously, her jaw remains set but her eyelashes flutter, and he has barely enough time to wonder if he’s almost home free before she snorts.

“Hide? From what?” He gives her a few seconds of staring at her feet to figure it out, and sure enough, she catches on, for the most part at least. “From _whom_? What did you do to piss Robin off this time?”

“I didn’t do _anything_ – and what do you mean _this time_?”

“What happened?” she repeats, crossing her arms and refusing point-blank to elaborate. He rolls his eyes.

“It wasn’t me. It was Roland. His preschool class is having a bake sale, and he wanted Robin’s ex-girlfriend to come help them make cookies.”

“What?” she asks, looking more confused than ever.

“Regina is the principal of Robin’s school,” he adds quickly. “Roland saw her and asked her to come today because he misses her, and she and Robin are… not exactly on good terms.”

“And… you don’t want to get in the middle of that,” she finishes his unspoken implication, drawing the words out like she’s trying to gauge his reaction. Knowing her, she’s probably seeing right through him, and as he shrugs helplessly, he suddenly finds himself not wanting to hear her answer. She studies him for a long moment – her eyes are bright and green and narrowed with suspicion – before she speaks again.

“You’re awful.”

“What?”

“You’re seriously telling me you’re going to leave the poor kid alone in the middle of whatever feud his stepparents are in?”

“ _Technically_ they’re not _married_ —”

“You know what I mean,” she says with a pointed look, but even without it, yeah, he knows. And he’d only had to take a quick glance around her apartment last week when he’d helped her with that package – neat, Spartan, and not a photograph in sight – to know just how much she’d understand, too. “Get out. I need to get changed.”

“Wait, what?” He stumbles backwards through her door, her palm warm on his chest through the fabric of his flannel, without having even realized he’d been leaning against her doorframe.

“I’m getting changed, and then I’m coming with you.”

“You’re… going to come bake cookies with me, your neighbor, and his ex-girlfriend?”

“And Roland,” she adds impatiently. “Since you’re apparently too much of a child to do it by yourself.”

It’s barely an opening, but the giddiness pumping through his veins seems to have made him bolder than usual. “I assure you, love, I’m anything but a child.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“I can make it perfectly clear, if you’d like.”

“You _really_ don’t know how to ask for help, do you?” she sighs. “I’m just about to change my mind.” He laughs at the dark glower that wrinkles her pretty mouth, wondering just how much he can test his luck.

“In that case, there’s no need to change, love – you look fantastic already. Unless you really do have a nurse’s costume lying around?”

“ _Out_ ,” she says with finality, but he swears he catches a glimpse of the tiniest trace of a smile on her face before the door closes in his face.

He lets out a slow breath, counts the wood grains in her door until he’s sure he’s no longer grinning like an idiot. Realistically, that could have gone a lot better, but it also could have gone a lot worse, and as he lets himself into the apartment next door, he repeats that thought in his head to avoid processing the notion that Emma Swan is about to be rounding out what promises to be the most eclectic group of people with whom he’s ever done anything in his entire life, much less bake cookies.

“And where the hell did you go?” Robin demands as soon as Killian passes the kitchen, where he seems to be in the middle of adjusting the countertop jars to a very specific angle. Killian freezes by the breakfast bar, halfway through the motion of swinging himself over and onto the couch.

“Bathroom,” he says tentatively, although it sounds more like a question.

“I hope you remembered to put the toilet seat do— _don’t sit_ ,” Robin finishes with a hiss, swooping into the living room and swatting Killian away from the couch like an angry mother hen. “I just straightened everything, and I don’t need you rumpling the slipcover.”

“Bloody hell, _calm down_ ,” Killian snorts. “It’s not like Regina’s never been here before.”

“Actually, she hasn’t,” Robin replies stonily, which immediately has Killian wishing he was flexible enough to put his foot in his mouth. Obviously she hasn’t been to Robin’s new apartment before, because the reason it’s new in the first place is because of her. Well, also partially because of Robin’s ex-wife, who had decided to show up out of nowhere exactly two months before Robin suddenly _happened_ to be in need of a new lease – but since there’s no love lost between him and Regina, Killian’s willing to ignore that part in favor of the sudden sense of dread that the two women of whom he’s most terrified are very soon going to be in the same room at the same time.

“Well, if you’re trying to match her impeccable tidiness, you’re out of luck, mate. I think you’ve missed a few specks of dust on the counter,” he tries, and thankfully, Robin sighs with a shake of his head. The last thing either of them needs right now is a repeat of six months ago, because he swears this time there isn’t enough alcohol in the apartment for the both of them–

“—told you about me,” a voice says from somewhere outside, sharp and curt and enough to tear him from that train of thought back to the reality where Robin is suddenly blanching, turning to Killian like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh, well, I’ve actually only just met him myself,” he hears Emma say, followed by the sound of the door closing. “Neither of us have exactly normal working hours.” When Emma emerges from the front hallway, he sees that she’s inexplicably taken his advice not to change out of her sweatpants – she catches his eye, bites her lip out of a grin like she’s trying to kill him – and that she’s accompanied by a dark-haired, red-lipped woman he’s hasn’t really been too eager to see again.

“Ah,” Regina says upon spotting him. “You’re here. Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s nice to see you too, Regina,” he replies with the least sincerity he can muster.

“I ran into Regina outside while I was getting my mail,” Emma says quickly, and when her gaze lingers on him, he immediately feels the irritation diffuse in favor of another small problem that has his pulse fluttering – the fact that he is apparently now sharing secrets with Emma Swan. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. She mentioned she was here to see you, Robin, and your door was open, so…”

“It was unlocked, not open.” Robin’s first words are, unsurprisingly, not the best ones he could have chosen, and he immediately looks like he wants nothing more than to fling himself off of the fire escape.

“It was open,” Regina repeats in a cold voice that leaves little room for argument, and Killian realizes his mistake a minute too late. Stupidly enough, he doesn’t seem to possess enough tact to stop himself from glancing at Emma, who returns his look with one that very clearly tells him how much of an idiot he is. Fortunately, Robin seems to be too preoccupied with the current situation to notice. “And hello to you too.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Regina…” he starts. A flare of panic ignites in Killian’s chest at the thought of them hashing things out right now – the last thing he’d wanted to happen was for Emma to get caught in private conversation she’d neither understand nor care about. He’s just about to step in, although he hasn’t a clue what kind of distraction he’d be able to provide without putting himself right in the crosshairs, but as it turns out, he’s unneeded in that particular category: Roland saves the day yet again, his delighted voice echoing down the bedroom hallway and reminding all of them of exactly why they’re here. And just like that, the ice in the room seems to melt – Regina’s face breaks out into a wide smile, Robin rubs the back of his neck (“Emma, feel free to stay if you’d like. We’re baking cookies.”), and Emma’s eyes glint victoriously as she passes him into the kitchen.

He wants to hook her arm at the elbow and whirl her around, roll his eyes at her because _this wasn’t even your idea in the first place_ – but he supposes it’s as much her plan as it was his, thanks to her superior improvisational skills despite his apparent insistence on flouncing the evidence of their collusion, and he still likes the thought that they can share at least this. Besides, he’s immediately distracted by the fact that, when she shakes out her long golden hair to pull it up into a ponytail, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafts towards him, even without the dough Roland eventually manages to smear across her cheek because, completely unsurprisingly, the boy takes to her almost as quickly as he had.

What _should_ surprise him is how Regina, who is usually as prickly as a cactus when it comes to meeting new people, seems to warm to Emma at least slightly more quickly than ice thawing in a freezer. He also seems to be late on the uptake that Robin and Emma seem to have already met sometime in the last two weeks. The only thing he seems capable of processing all morning is the sight of her crouched by the oven with the boy and how it makes his heart swell – and when she glances up at him with a small smile smudged with dough and laughter in her eyes, he forces himself to look away, because he thinks he might be in a whole lot of trouble.

* * *

 “The Rabbit Hole.”

“No.”

“That new place, below Sleepy’s Coffee – The Dwarf Tavern.”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.” Emma purses her lips, narrowing her eyes across the room to where Killian’s mouth is curved in the most infuriating smirk. “The Snuggly Duckling?”

At this, he lets out a rich laugh that should _not_ make her stomach swoop like she’s eaten a few spoonfuls too many of cookie dough. “You frequent bars with the most interesting names, Swan.” She snorts indignantly in response, which only earns her a fussy snore from the child resting against her shoulder. With a hint of panic, she shifts Roland until he settles with his tiny arms around her neck, completely under again, just like his father and his father’s ex-girlfriend sprawled out on the couch – leaning on different armrests, granted, but she thinks Killian still considers this a small victory – utterly worn down over the past few hours out by the five-year-old monster in her lap. She’d be passed out too, honestly, because 9am was _way_ too early to be awake after a 3am stake-out, if it wasn’t for the man sitting on the kitchen floor against the cabinets opposite, grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary.

_Waiting for cookies is not a two-person job_ , she thinks sourly, but she knows she doesn’t have anyone to blame but herself, because the only reason she’s irritated is because she’s losing and he knows it.

“Why won’t you just tell me?” she hisses, careful not to jostle Roland again, and Killian just shrugs serenely.

“It’s more fun to watch you guess.”

“Making a list of bars I go to so it’s easier to stalk me, is that it?”

He makes a small tutting sound with his tongue. “I thought we’d already established that I know where you live and how to break in, love, so I wouldn’t need that information.”

“Maybe you’re just terrible and you just don’t want me to hear you sing.” She returns his look of mock outrage with a smirk of her own, and while everything about this situation is ridiculous – she’s sitting on the floor of her neighbor’s apartment with his kid sleeping on her lap and his best friend having an actual conversation with her like they’re _friends_ (except _that’s_ nothing new, not really, and maybe they are – friends, that is, in the loosest sense of the word) – she has to say she barely notices how her neck aches against the cabinet wood or how hard the tile is on her backside when it’s 3pm on a warm autumn Saturday and the only sounds are the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and Roland’s quiet breathing and everything smells like cinnamon and vanilla. And she supposes there are worse ways to spend her afternoon than with someone as unfortunately entertaining as Killian Jones.

“I have better reasons for not wanting you to hear me sing,” he says, his mouth twisted in a scornful smile. “And I assure you, should you ever have the fortune of receiving a serenade from myself, you should count yourself lucky.”

“What are those reasons, then?” She blatantly ignores the second half of his statement, because that would mean having to analyze how the thought of that particular scenario has her gut coiling in the most uncomfortable way.

“You, Swan,” he enunciates each word with that horrible accent of his, “are _distracting_.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Do you think it normally takes us this long to make a couple dozen cookies?” he continues with a flash of white teeth, and if she wasn’t being careful, she’d have grit her own into dust by now. Somehow it doesn’t surprise her that he’s just turned a comment that had her pulse jumping into an exasperating insinuation she _knows_ he’s just saying to get a rise out of her – although that doesn’t mean she won’t bite back.

“I take it you do this often, then? A single bachelor spending his free time baking with his friend, his preschooler, and his preschooler’s principal?”

“I thought ladies fawned over gentlemen doing domestic things.” He raises an eyebrow suggestively, but, somehow, it only makes her snort.

“If you want to be a real gentleman, why don’t you take this kid off my hands?” She nudges Roland gently, careful not to shift him too much. “Women love seeing men with children.”

“I don’t want to wake him,” Killian says too innocently. “Although if you’re saying you’d be seduced by a babe in my arms, then by all means, love, hand him over.” She rolls her eyes, but he’s already on his feet, crossing the kitchen in two easy strides and reaching for Roland with flour-stained hands. “Really, Swan,” he chuckles lowly when he meets her amused look, “if he’s heavy, I’d be happy to take him.”

“I was joking,” she tries, but he’s already sweeping the kid off of her lap without a hint of hesitation, nestling his head into the crook of his neck and straightening gracefully like he’s done it a million times. She was kidding, she really was, but before she can voice her protest that _seriously_ , she takes down guys five times Roland’s weight for a living, the words stick in her throat when she catches sight of Killian’s expression right before he turns away – tender and warm, his blue eyes sweeping the kid’s face affectionately – and she has the sudden feeling that she’s intruding on something very private. Hell, she realizes uneasily as her gaze flickers over to the living room, that’s exactly what she’s been doing this entire time, because she seems to be the only one here who isn’t part of their little family – if it was just Robin and Roland and Regina, she might have politely excused herself right from the start, except now she’s come to realize Killian falls into that particular category too – and yet he’s inexplicably brought her right in the middle of it all, despite the fact that she barely knows any of them, despite the fact that the person with whom she’s exchanged the most words is Killian, and even that’s barely saying much –

The oven timer goes off, and three things happen simultaneously: Emma jerks violently, Roland starts crying, and Robin practically flies off the couch.

“What are you – ?” Robin grunts over the back of the sofa as Emma hurries to the switch off the timer. “Killian? What are you still doing here?”

“It’s still Saturday,” Killian replies dryly, bouncing Roland in his arms. When Emma pulls the oven door open, the smell of perfectly-baked snickerdoodles is just enough to make up for the loud commotion going on behind her. “Go back to sleep, mate.”

“I fell asleep?” she hears Robin say.

“Don’t worry, Killian and I salvaged your son’s bake sale.” She turns around with the tray of cookies in her mitted hands, returning Killian’s grin with one of her own before meeting Robin’s disgruntled frown.

“You’re making her take the cookies out?” he says accusingly.

“I’m a little busy here.” As if on cue, Roland’s cries escalate in volume, and Robin rushes into the kitchen to take him into his arms, glancing over to the couch where Regina still seems to be out like a light. Killian hands the kid off, then joins her over by the counter where she starts to take the cookies off the tray to cool.

“They’re hot,” she warns him, trying to swat his hand away, but he manages to maneuver his way into swiping one anyway thanks to her one-arm handicap. With a maddening smirk, he takes a huge bite, and she raises an eyebrow as he swallows without batting an eye.

“What was that, Swan?”

She’s just about to roll her eyes and get back to the cookie sheet – despite his impressive show of bravado, she _knows_ he’s bluffing – except while part of her doesn’t even want to dignify that with a response, another part of her knows she’s not going to turn down a challenge when he’s practically handing her the perfect way to one-up him, literally. With her free hand, she grabs his wrist and takes a large bite of the same cookie for herself, making sure to maintain eye contact with him the entire time – that is, until her eyes start watering when it starts blistering the inside of her mouth. It isn’t until the tears have cleared after she swallows that she notices that he’s gone stiff, his muscles are tensed beneath her hand, and although the smirk has disappeared from his face, she’s starting to fear it isn’t for the reason she’d been hoping for. Carefully, she releases his wrist, belatedly wondering if she’s crossed some kind of line, and that at least has his eyes jumping from her mouth back up to hers.

It feels like she didn’t swallow well enough, because that has her swallowing again.

Now is a _terrible_ time to be noticing how his scruff is a lighter color than his hair and that he has a small scar down one cheek, so she does what seems most logical: she blurts the first thing that comes to her mind.

“You tricked me.”

He blinks twice and the spell breaks, and when she takes a deep breath, it feels like she’s inhaling water. “What?”

“You…” she takes a step back while struggling to find the right words, because between this realization and the subsequent unwelcome distraction, she feels like her tongue is more than just burned. “You didn’t have to hide in my apartment. Today. If you didn’t want to be here, you could have just gone home.”

He cocks his head, but the way the corners of his mouth curve is a dead giveaway. “What on earth are you talking about, Swan?”

“You never wanted me to let you in; you wanted to invite me here from the beginning.” The words spill from her mouth as the pieces click in her head, and she suddenly thinks she needs to sit down. Instead, she braces herself against the counter for support because she pretty sure she’s going to strangle him with her free hand otherwise. “You knew I’d offer to come help. That was why you mentioned Roland. You knew I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

He’s biting his lip as he considers her, but it does absolutely nothing to conceal the delight spreading across his face. “And _how_ ,” he draws out the word so infuriatingly, she wonders how she could have fallen for it in the first place, and even worse, he has the nerve to lean in so close her fingers nearly slip off the tray, “could I have known that?”

She has absolutely no idea, not even when she leaves with her own small tupperware of chocolate chip cookies at the end of the day, and she’s later convinced they must have botched the recipe because it certainly can’t be that unsettling thought that makes them taste the tiniest bit bittersweet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To longtime readers...
> 
> TWO FUCKING YEARS LATER: hello! I could spout off a million reasons/excuses this story has been so slow on the update (basically a huge hiatus, oop), but instead, I’ll just say that this fic has always (guiltily) been at the back of my mind, and I’m very close to finishing the writing process, so new chapters will be posted weekly from today if it kills me :’)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one and what'll be very soon to come!

He doesn’t expect her to be home at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, so, of course, she is.

He’s making his way up the fire escape ladder when he happens a glance through her window and notices that the television on the far wall seems to be on. It’s also a rare coincidence that he catches a glimpse of the suspicious bundle of blankets peeking over the back of her couch – or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. Before he can think better of it, he shifts the box in his hands to his knees, ignores the unpleasant fact that crouching outside someone’s window is hardly the most flattering entrance, and raps his knuckles gently against the glass.

To his delight, the blankets stir to reveal a golden tangle of curls, and when she turns and spots him, he’s pleased to see her return his grin, if seemingly reluctantly. It takes her a moment to press a button on the remote in her hand, then pad over to the window, the blankets slipping down her shoulders – she’s in those damned pajamas again, the ones that only consist of a large t-shirt and bare collarbones and lean thighs, but she doesn’t seem to care – and pull it open with a grunt that sends his mind straight to the gutter.

“This seems familiar,” she says, leaning on the windowsill. The way she’s propped herself up with her elbows, looking up at him with that ridiculously disheveled smile, makes him think of sleepy mornings after a night of those gutter-housed fantasies, and he nearly has to shake his head to rid himself of the thought. “What are you, some kind of stalker?”

“I was going for more vigilante,” he replies cheekily. “Patrolling the streets and all of that.”

“Vigilante? Are you sure you’re not some kind of villain on the prowl?”

“Would a villain bring you,” he takes a moment to whip the cover off the box in his lap with an overly dramatic flourish, “doughnuts?”

She fixes him with a hard stare, but her mouth is still curved at the corners like she’s trying too hard not to laugh. “It’s a shame I prefer bad boys, but I’ll take it since you brought bear claws,” she says finally, taking the sweet in question out of his hands. Normally, he’d go for the bone she very obviously threw him, but in the split second that she leans in he notices it – the hint of darkness that tints the pale skin under her eyes, the way her smile seems just a tad hollow, as if someone’s dimmed the lights behind her eyes.

“You all right, Swan?” he asks her when she leans back to settle her elbows back on the windowsill. He should have known better than to ask, he realizes in an instant, because her expression closes off like he does with the box in his lap.

“Of course I am. Why?” He tries shrugging nonchalantly, as if he doesn’t care as much as he does.

“Didn’t expect to see you home.”

“I called in sick,” she says, although she certainly doesn’t sound it, and his suspicions are nearly confirmed when she speaks again, a far cry from what he’s almost tempted to call her earlier flirting: “Did you need something?”

“Just wanted to say hello on the way to Robin’s.” He’s disappointed she’s trying to get rid of him so quickly, but he’s more concerned than regretful that he’d brought up her well-being in the first place. Still, he’d be amiss if he didn’t at least try to keep the conversation afloat. “You know, this isn’t quite how I imagined the nurse’s costume scenario to play out, but I’m more than happy to compromise.”

Somehow, it works – her pink lips curve in a wry smile, and his insides turn to gelatin. “Ah, so you’re offering to play the nurse?”

“At your service, love.”

“I’d much rather see you in a nurse’s dress than clean up your hangover vomit, I’ll admit,” she says, taking a huge bite of the pastry in her hand with relish and a smirk.

“Oh, I assure you, darling, my nurse’s costume is much more scandalous than a provocative dress.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” He _swears_ the way she licks her lips is a little excessive for how much of the crumbs ended up on her mouth, but that would involve staring at her mouth, which he also swears he hasn’t been doing. “In the meantime, say hi to Robin for me.”

It’s an obvious dismissal, but Killian’s determined to take advantage of every second he’s got. “He’s not home. I’d just wanted to retrieve some of my belongings and drop off some sweets for Roland since I was passing by, but I seem to have misplaced my key.”

“So you’re breaking and entering again,” she snorts, but it’s less accusatory and more amused than he’d expected.

“Not to worry, love, Robin always keeps his window unlocked,” he assures her.

“That doesn’t seem very safe.”

“What can I say? The idiot likes to live on the edge.”

“A dangerous lifestyle, huh? I guess he’s more of a bad boy than you are.” The glint in her eye tells him everything he needs to know about how much he’s playing right into her hands, but the thought of Emma and _Robin_ together, of all people, has his stomach in more knots than a playful jab should warrant.

“You forget, Swan, I’m still the lawbreaker,” he says with a wink, and he’s satisfied to see that when she laughs, the tension in her shoulders seems to melt away. “Feel better, love.”

He means it in all the ways she probably suspects he does. “Thanks.” The smile is still on her face after she closes the window and turns away, and Killian is suddenly very glad Robin isn’t home to see how he can’t seem to stop grinning as well.

Unfortunately, the giddiness at having, for once, ended a conversation with Emma Swan in her good graces is quashed about a minute later, when she approaches the window with a confused frown on her face, her eyebrows raised as she hauls it open again in response to his knocking. He tries his most charming smile.

“It’s locked.”

* * *

The small black pouch is buried in a box at the bottom of her closet, and Emma’s fairly certain her hair is covered in a fine layer of dust by the time she emerges from her apartment, feeling gross and irritated. Killian’s already waiting by Robin’s door, leaning against the jamb like the cocky asshole he is, except she knows he’s not actually as much of a cocky asshole as her attitude at this entire situation would have her believe at this moment.

True to that, his first words send a flash of guilt through her, then another wave of annoyance that he should even be making her feel that way. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m not murdering anyone,” she says, rummaging through the bag as she tries not to notice how cold the hallway linoleum is on her bare feet. Of course, he’s impeccably dressed to the letter, leather jacket right down to ripped jeans that make him look like some kind of distracting rock star, so she has a little trouble finding what she needs at first. “It’s not a capital offense, at least. And it’s not like I’m going to get caught as long as you do your job and keep watch.”

“Aye aye, captain,” he replies dryly with a mock salute before turning to lean on the banister, the doughnut box forgotten at his feet. This, of course, gives her a fantastic view of his ass in those horribly fitted jeans, so it’s with an even more frustrated huff that she yanks the lock pick out of the bag and crouches next to apartment 3A.

It’s been a while since she’s done anything like this – she’d firmly left that life behind after meeting Mary Margaret and David, after all – but she hardly feels guilty about it. In fact, she hardly feels anything at all. Her mind feels numb to the knowledge of exactly from whom she’d gotten this lock pit set and exactly who’d taught her how to use it, and it’s especially not in the least because she’s had to go around literally digging in the past barely a day after that same exact person had apparently found his way back within dangerous wandering distance of a sure-to-be disastrous chance encounter.

She was never supposed to see him again. He was supposed to have been gone from her life, just like he’d wanted.

She’s not upset, not really, but she’s inclined to think years of radio silence should have yielded something more akin to detachment, rather than a bout of nausea in the pit of her stomach and a mostly sleepless night. And yet, after hanging up from an hour-long conversation with Ruby that probably skyrocketed her phone bill and yet did absolutely nothing to her nerves (to be fair, Ruby _had_ done most of the talking, but since she was the messenger, Emma had let her have her fun), she’d found herself delving into Mary Margaret’s old video collection – which is where the other source of male annoyance in her life found her before barging his way back through her open window.

(She’s very thankful she paused the television when she did, because she _really_ doesn _’t_ want to deal with Neal and Killian in the same context. In fact, she doesn’t want to think about Neal at all. Or Killian, for that matter.)

“Fascinating.” The voice comes from right beside her, and she jumps, nearly breaking the pick comb inside the lock in the process. She notices he’s bent down beside her a second too late to get out of the way, because he’s inspecting her progress in a way that brings his face far too close for comfort. “So the idea is to mutilate the lock, is that it?”

She should be annoyed by the jibe, but he says it in such a completely innocent way that she’s afraid he might be serious. “What? No,” she grits out, twisting the pick in an unnecessarily complicated maneuver that forces him to duck out of the way of her elbow. “I’m just out of practice.”

“I imagine the opportunities are few and far between,” he agrees. He watches her silently for a long moment, during which she regrets her oversight to have hurried from her window straight to her closet and then right out her door without changing out of her pajamas – he might be too much of a gentleman to point out her lack of pants, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel the stupid goosebumps crawling up her thighs – before he speaks again. “Where did you acquire such an unusual skill, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She does mind. She’s definitely not telling him the truth, but she can’t bring herself to outright lie to him. “I picked up a lot of tricks as a kid,” she says, which is a much easier, if completely misleading, truth.

He hums, a noise low in his throat that sounds equal parts thoughtful and cautious. “Orphanage or foster care?”

“Excuse me?” She rounds on him, her heart plummeting.

“Did you spend a long time in the system?” he asks simply.

“That’s an awfully tactless assumption to make,” she snaps, mostly because he’s hit the nail on the head without even trying.

“I apologize, love,” he says, and he has the nerve to actually look sorry. “You’re something of an open book.”

“Is that right?”

“You have that look in your eye – the one you get when you’ve been left alone.”

“How would you know anything about that?” she asks, but she immediately wishes she hadn’t, because she suddenly finds herself dreading his answer. True to that, he considers her quietly, eyes darting between hers, guarded and careful and _blue_ , and she swears he’s so close she can taste his slow exhale on her tongue.

“I wouldn’t,” he says at last, and she nearly breathes a sigh of relief before he continues, “but maybe it’s better not having anyone to care too much about.”

She swallows hard, watching as he averts his gaze. She knows better than anyone about keeping her heart behind locked doors, but something on his face makes her think he might be able to give her a run for her money. “Look, Killian—” she starts.

“I didn’t mean to bring up such a sensitive topic,” he says quickly, before she can continue, although she’s not quite sure what she’s going to say. “Let’s just drop it.”

“Seventeen years,” she says, and he meets her gaze with confusion. The words taste like bile in her mouth, but she spits them with less venom and more weariness than they should warrant. “On and off, for seventeen years. That’s how long I was in the system.”

He’s silent, regarding her with an unreadable expression. She wants to walk away, wants nothing more than to turn her back and barricade herself in her apartment until the thought of having just admitted that doesn’t make her chest hurt like it’s ten years ago and she’s realizing all over again that she isn’t, and won’t ever be, wanted – but she forces herself to stay, just because she knows she’ll have the chance to take it out on him when he inevitably responds with pity.

Unfortunately, he never does.

“My father was an alcoholic.” He has this small, bitter smile on his face, although his gaze never leaves hers. “I was almost placed in foster care myself. I know the feeling, love.”

It’s not the most startling revelation – at least not more so than the fact that he’s telling her this at all. “What happened?”

“My brother turned eighteen,” he says, and leaves it at that. It isn’t a plea for her to keep prodding, she knows – it’s an understanding that she can fill in the blanks, that she knows how; and, against her will, she finds herself wanting to.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Robin’s voice startles her into awareness, and she feels rather than sees Killian jump away, tearing his eyes from hers with alarm. Still, the solid heat of his knee rests against hers when she turns to see her neighbor, who could not have had worse timing, taking the last step up the stairwell, Regina Mills, to her surprise, not very far behind him.

“Shit, Robin—” she starts, scrambling to her feet, her face feeling like an open flame. The door against her back is cold on her skin, and in realizing how bare her legs are, she also realizes that the scene they’ve set is incriminating in more ways than one.

“You locked your bloody window, you prick,” Killian says as if by way of explanation, which elicits a snort from Robin and a cough disguising a laugh from her. He shouldn’t be the one sounding indignant, but she supposes she should be thankful this all seems to be standard for their relationship.

“Looks like some things never change,” Regina mutters, quirking a perfect eyebrow, to which Robin shakes his head.

“What the hell happened to your key?”

“Is that any way to talk to someone who just wanted to bring your son doughnuts?”

Robin scoffs, scooping up the indicated box with one hand as he brandishes his keys with the other. “I’m sure _that’s_ what you were doing.”

Emma watches as they exchange glances before interjecting: “Uh, Robin, listen—”

“Don’t even apologize, Emma,” he interrupts her. “I can’t imagine this was your idea.” It was, actually – an unfortunate product of good intentions and a preference for direct problem-solving – but Robin doesn’t need to know that. She moves out of the way for him to unlock his door, Killian at her side shifting on the balls of his feet with his hands tucked behind his back, the perfect picture of innocence. Meanwhile, she realizes she’s still holding the lock pick, and she can’t seem to cram it back into its bag quickly enough for Regina not to glance at it disapprovingly.

“Still, I’m really sorry. I swear you don’t have to move away to avoid a break-in from your next door neighbor.”

“I believe you,” Robin laughs. “Now,” he pushes the door open for Regina, who spares neither of them a glance as she walks through, then follows her before turning in the doorway, “if you don’t need anything else, you’ll have to excuse me.”

“Well, actually—”

“Nope,” Emma says quickly. There’s nothing she wants less than to barge in on whatever Robin and Regina have planned for their afternoon, especially right after nearly committing a felony against one of them. “Nothing else. Sorry again.”

“Really, Emma, it’s fine,” Robin says, his kind smile turning into a meaningful _we’ll talk later_ look towards Killian, complete with raised eyebrows, although it doesn’t make her particularly worried considering they seem to have a track record for this kind of thing. What does worry her is how quiet the hallway suddenly becomes after he shuts the door behind him, leaving her alone and in her pajamas with someone who makes her really wish she was wearing pants.

“Bloody hell,” Killian sighs. “He took all the doughnuts.”

“What?” When she turns to him, he’s running a hand through his dark hair, looking deeply distressed. “I thought you bought them for Roland.”

He shrugs, meets her gaze with bright blue eyes. “They weren’t only for him.”

“Is this the part where I realize this entire thing has been some scheme again?” she asks, suddenly on edge.

“While I _am_ extraordinarily impressed by how many doughnuts you think we can consume between the two of us in one afternoon, Swan,” he grins, “I really did leave my guitar at Robin’s, and I need it for a performance tonight.”

“A performance,” she repeats bluntly. “Where?”

“At an undisclosed location closer to Robin’s apartment than to mine.” _Damn._ She can’t help but shake her head at his victorious smirk. “Hence the convenience of an available storage site.”

“You really don’t want me to hear you sing, do you?”

“Since you brought it up, I suppose I could be persuaded,” he says slowly. The way his eyes drag down her body sends a shiver up her spine, even though she knows he’s joking, and she forces herself to take a steadying breath.

“Right, well. I’m going to go put some clothes on.”

“Excellent idea, love.” She doesn’t miss how he lingers on her mouth before meeting her gaze again, but he seems amicable as ever. “In the meantime, I’ll be needing a drink to remove the mental image of my dear friend canoodling with his ex just behind that there door, so I’ll be in search of an establishment that will supply me with Captain Morgan at this time of day.”

“A drink sounds really good right now,” she sighs, even if her reasoning leans a little more towards mortification than disgust. “I think I might have some rum left over from Mary Margaret’s baby shower.”

As counterintuitive as that statement is, she’s not surprised he latches onto the one part she didn’t say aloud. “Is that an invitation, Swan?”

“Just so I don’t owe you for the bear claw.” She tries to make it sound as begrudging as possible, but something in his expression makes her think she’s failing. Something in the way her gut clenches when he meets her gaze and grins on his way through her door makes her think she doesn’t care.

That is, until she closes the bedroom door behind her – and, perhaps more importantly, between them – and catches sight of herself in the mirror on the nearby wall.

She doesn’t know when she’d started smiling, but the thought that she’s been unconsciously beaming this entire time has her wiping it off her face in a flash. She’s also vaguely embarrassed for the state of her hair, especially in pleasant company. But the distinct mark of adrenaline tinting her cheeks is what finally does it, because she hasn’t looked like that in years, and she can remember exactly how many off the top of her head.

This is stupid. She shouldn’t be willingly spending time with Killian Jones, especially now that it’s become impossible to ignore the fact that she wants to. There is literally video evidence still sitting in her television of why she doesn’t do this anymore, why she _can’t_ , why men with understanding eyes and charming smiles are nothing but trouble. It doesn’t matter that this time those eyes are blue and the charm is dirty in a way that catches her between a laugh and a sigh – she knows she’s going soft when she has to tell herself this at all, and it’s with that thought that she wrenches on a pair of yoga pants, firmly resists the temptation to fix her hair in the mirror, and storms back out of the room with renewed purpose.

“You can stay until the coast is clear from Regina,” she announces, but the foyer is empty and he’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, the distinct sound of Mary Margaret’s voice echoes through her apartment, and the pieces click together in her head just as she reaches the end of the hallway, freezing into place.

“Is this Granny’s?” He’s leaning on the back of the couch, elbows crossed on the upholstery in an unmistakable image of bored curiosity, remote in his hand and the television very clearly displaying Granny’s forest wallpaper in the background, courtesy of her friend’s shaky handheld camerawork.

And in the foreground is the very last person she’d want Killian to know about.

“ _Seriously, this is amazing, Mary Margaret_ ,” Neal is saying, his voice barely audible over the din of music and voices from the crowd around him. “ _We couldn’t have done all of this without you_.”

“ _Don’t even start. Just make sure I get an honorable mention in your speech._ ” Neal chuckles, and the image shakes with the vibrations of Mary Margaret’s laugh.

“ _Speaking of which, it’s almost time, isn’t it? Have you seen Emma?_ ”

“ _No, I think she was talking t— oh wait, here she is! Come on, let’s get a shot of that rock._ ”

And she watches in horror as the Emma on the screen slides into view, fitting herself into the curve of Neal’s arm with a wide smile at the camera, and holds up her left hand, where an unmistakable diamond ring sparkles on her finger.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to everyone who expressed their excitement at this story coming back! It means so much more to me than I can say <3

Killian’s eyes snap into focus just in time for him to dodge the flick aimed squarely between his brows.

“Oh good, you’re still conscious,” Robin says, his voice bored, unconcerned with how Killian’s evasive maneuver nearly causes him to stumble on the front steps of the apartment building.

“What the buggering fuck was that for?”

“I knew you weren’t listening to me. I said we need to stop by Emma’s to pick up Roland.”

A distinct lurch passes through his abdomen, and he forces his face to stay passive. “Why does that bear need for an announcement? Is this a full-scale extraction or can you just pop in and grab him without being a prick?”

“Jesus, okay. Sorry.” Robin narrows his eyes, digging through his pockets for the building key card, but Killian can’t bring himself to feel guilty. “Just thought you’d jump at a legitimate excuse to see her.”

“I haven’t the slightest why,” Killian says flatly, but instead of the rush of adrenaline he’s grown accustomed to when it comes to discussing his friend’s neighbor, trepidation settles in his bones like a solid weight.

“Clearly,” Robin mutters, and Killian doesn’t even have it in him to argue further because, if the last two weeks have been any indication, it really is the truth.

And all it takes is the memory of an innocuous little engagement ring for him to accept that he really is the only one to blame.

He’d spent the first few days after that disastrous afternoon faulting Robin and his awful timing – for knocking on Emma’s door right as he’d turned to her and her completely ashen face, the image of the ring on her finger plastered across his vision and pounding his heartbeat into his skull. He’d tried to say something then, he really had, but the window of opportunity had blinked away as soon as she’d hurried to the door and retrieved his guitar from his very disgruntled-looking friend.

He’d barely gotten out three words on his way out – _Swan, I’m sorry—_ – before she’d shut him down.

_It’s fine, Killian,_ she’d said, but in the few seconds she’d been turned around, she’d schooled her expression into a perfect blend of embarrassment and sheepishness he’d instantly known was a sham. _It’s not like it was a secret or anything._ He remembers still trying, though, stumbling through half-formed apologies that she’d deflected in a heartbeat, but the thing that sticks with him most is the way her smile had looked as she’d finally closed the door – tense, guarded, and more closed-off than the day he’d first blinked up at her from her couch.

It had taken until the Wednesday afterwards when he’d cancelled on dinner at Robin’s, citing an excuse as flimsy as Emma’s _sick_ defense, that he’d finally admitted to himself that he was avoiding her after that horrifying faux pas.

Bloody _hell_. If it’d been anything but an engagement ring, he would have bounced back like a champion – the sight of Emma lip-locked with another man might have bothered him, but at least it wouldn’t have been muddled with the image of her holding up the ring but with chestnut hair instead of blonde.

He thinks of Milah in the first time in weeks. And, to his surprise, it doesn’t come with an overwhelming urge to break out the drink and drown himself in bitterness.

But, he soon realizes: that’s the problem.

“So do you want to wait out here?” Robin’s voice startles him into taking in the door to apartment 3B, suddenly right in front of him, and Killian realizes he’s zoned out through two flights of stairs. “Or are you going to be a big boy and come inside to say hello?”

“I say hello to Emma all the time,” he says, aware that he sounds like a petulant child to the point that even Robin knows it, throwing him a look as he raps his knuckles against the wood.

“Not to Emma. Her friend is one of the teachers at Roland’s school, and she volunteered to take him home so I could help _you_ fix your heater.”

This is a mildly interesting revelation, but he’s more surprised by the sandy-haired man who opens the door instead of one of the few people he actually knows in Emma’s life enough to expect. He has no right, _no fucking right_ to be jealous, but, perhaps in part due to the circumstances of the last time he’d seen her, the bubble of curiosity turns into suspicion before he can help it.

“One of you must be Robin,” the man says with an easy smile. “Mary Margaret said we’d be expecting you.”

“Guilty as charged.” Robin clasps his hand in a firm handshake before the stranger turns to Killian.

“Killian,” he says, trying his best not to sound sullen as he takes the proffered handshake.

“I’m David, Mary Margaret’s fiancé, Emma’s friend,” David explains as he gestures them inside, which of course makes Killian feel immensely ridiculous. “Hope you don’t mind that your son had a few more sitters than expected.”

It’s then that Killian notices just how many people are crammed into Emma’s tiny sitting room. Roland he spots right away, feet swinging over the edge of the couch on the far wall, crayon in hand while happily chattering away to the short-haired brunette sitting next to him. Ruby catches his eye in the loveseat, grins over the arm of the blonde man wrapped around her shoulders, and he’s suddenly wary of exactly how much she knows about the last time he’d visited this apartment.

It’s Emma he’s most worried about, though – and, true to that, she looks almost started to see him over the kitchen counter, halfway through the motion of settling a mug into the dish rack.

Her long hair swept off of her shoulders, lashes quivering as she blinks, taking him in, she’s certainly a sight for sore, wanting eyes. But then, in a flash, she rearranges her expression, her parted lips lending themselves to a tentative smile, and it stings that he knows that isn’t how her smiles – hard-earned, sometimes reluctant, but brilliant all the same – should feel.

They shouldn’t feel as empty as his chest does from seeing this one now.

“Daddy!” Roland’s delighted cry jolts him back into the room, though Killian doesn’t miss the way Emma seems to jerk to attention as well, even as he turns to watch a mousey-haired blur slam into Robin’s legs.

“Hey, buddy.” His friend crouches down, equipped, as always, with that same dopey grin he’d seemingly acquired the second he entered fatherhood. “Hope you were good today for Miss Blanchard.” Roland squeals in response to the tickle attack hello, his favorite way of greeting.

“Oh, please,” says a bright voice, and Killian blinks up at the petite brunette sidling across the room, weaving a careful path between the furniture; it takes him a second to realize that’s due to the tiny baby bump she has tucked beneath her palms. “I find it hard to believe Roland’s ever misbehaved in his life.” When she reaches them at the foyer, she shares a smile with Robin, then ambushes him with a warm hand outstretched. “Hi! I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Er.” Killian has to resist the urge to scratch behind his ear – that silly nervous tic he’s never quite been able to purge – even as he covers her fingers with his own. These are possibly some of the worst circumstances in which he might be fortunate enough to meet so many of Emma’s friends (read: while he’s caught off-guard and under the scrutiny of every single one of them, not to mention his oldest), and, without his permission, his gaze flits back to the kitchen before it regains focus. “Right,” he says hesitantly. “I—”

“But my ice cream, Daddy!”

Back on the ground, Roland seems to be having trouble using his _inside voice_ (which is a term Killian isn’t proud to say he’s become far too familiar with over the years), despite Robin’s best efforts. “What ice cream?”

“Oh!” The woman he assumes, if only by common sense, is Mary Margaret tugs her hand away as she recoils, grimacing. “I’m so sorry, Robin; I should have checked if it was okay with you.” She appears to glance at her fiancé hovering nearby for support before she speaks again, sounding exceptionally guilty. “We weren’t sure when you were going to get here, and I didn’t want Roland to get hungry, so…”

“If I leave, it’ll melt!” Roland tugs his father by the wrist, back towards the couch and his crayons. Robin shakes his head at his son, but his smile is kind and reassuring.

“Please, don’t worry about it,” he tells Mary Margaret, then to Roland: “Come now, Roland. Let’s not be rude when Miss Blanchard’s already been so accommodating.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head with an earnestness that Killian suspects might make her some kind of Disney princess. “It’s no trouble at all,” she insists. “You’re welcome to stay and finish your ice cream, if you’d like.”

“Why don’t you just stay for dinner?” Ruby’s voice interrupts from the couch, and his head snaps up in response almost as quickly, nearly giving him whiplash.

To say he knows Ruby would be a vast overstatement, as he’s pretty sure recognizing her from Granny’s doesn’t count, but, somehow, the red smirk stretching her mouth wide (and reminding him distinctly of the Cheshire cat) doesn’t seem too out-of-place, albeit worrisome all the same. Neither does Emma’s reaction, to be honest, which resembles something akin to consternation – certainly reasonable, given the eagerness of her friends to so freely loan out her apartment, but he suspects that’s not the only reason when their gazes meet yet again.

“No, no,” Robin says, trying valiantly to restrain his son’s excited agreement. “We shouldn’t intrude.” Killian clears his throat, intending to add his own protest to that, but he doesn’t get very far.

“It isn’t a big deal,” Ruby presses. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots another glare from the kitchen. “We were just about to call in an order for pick-up, actually.”

“Really, we’d love you have you,” Mary Margaret agrees. “You too, Killian,” she adds, nodding at him with a smile.

In return, he can only blink haplessly at her, then over her shoulder to where Emma stands, then down at his friend. Robin spares him a half-shrug, and there isn’t a doubt in Killian’s mind that he thinks he’s doing him a favor when he says, “I guess there’s no reason we can’t.”

And, well, so it goes.

Dinner at Emma’s: that’s a thought he’d have probably enjoyed a bit more had he not just spent the last two weeks avoiding her.

At least, barring the obvious, they settle in with a lot less awkwardness than he feels. Roland resumes his place on the couch, ice cream in hand despite warnings of a ruined appetite, and after Killian formally meets the rest of the crowded room – Mary Margaret, of course, along with Ruby, smug as ever, and her boyfriend Victor – he’s relieved to say that they’re comprised of enough people who enjoy arguing with each other so much that his discomfort nearly fades into background noise the moment they decide to place their order and the room descends into chaos.

(Nearly, needless to say, being the key word here, once the topic turns to desserts and whether or not Granny’s apple pie bakes are worth the extra wait.

“We don’t need apple pie,” insists Mary Margaret, in what Killian assumes is either a pregnancy-related drive for healthy eating habits, or lingering guilt for giving Roland ice cream before dinner, until she speaks again. “I hear Robin makes a mean chocolate chip cookie.”

“What?” Robin asks, like a deer caught in headlights, before Killian grasps her meaning.

“The bake sale,” he murmurs.

“I had a few of the ones you gave Emma,” Mary Margaret explains, to a lovely scowl from the woman in question. “Now I wish I’d stopped by to buy the lot.”

“Oh.” Robin seems vaguely pleased, as though the idiot hadn’t had a thousand parents tell him the same exact thing. “I had a lot of help, though. Emma lent her afternoon to help. As did Killian.”

Ruby sits up in her shared seat with Victor. “Oh? And when exactly was this?”

“It was just a few cookies,” Emma mutters – the first thing he’s heard her say all day, and he isn’t sure if that’s the reason something in his chest jerks, or if it’s because he’s suddenly remembering the burn of a freshly-baked snickerdoodle in his hand, and the even hotter burn of her slight hand wrapped around his wrist as she brought it to her mouth.

“All afternoon?” David says skeptically. Killian keeps his mouth firmly zipped shut, but he does watch Emma throw a withering look over at her friend, her hands clasping together in her lap like she’s trying to restrain herself from going over and killing him.

“Seems like an awfully long time to traumatize this poor guy with your bickering,” Ruby adds, cocking her head towards a blissfully unaware Roland on the opposite couch.

“Bickering?”

“She means flirting,” Victor says in a deadpan.

“They’re talking about you, mate,” Killian says quickly, and gives Robin a nudge with his shoulder, despite the fact that he’s positive they really aren’t. “I’d forgotten how much worse you and Regina are when you hate each other.”

Robin reddens, spluttering. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Oh, right. You seem to be mending those bridges pretty thoroughly, aren’t you?”

“There’s no— there’s nothing going on between me and Regina.” A blatant lie, but Killian isn’t sure how much of the truth he wants to know, to be honest.

“You shouldn’t doubt the bond a good cookie-baking adventure can form,” Mary Margaret tells Robin seriously, her eyes twinkling with sugary wisdom.

“Ugh, we don’t need this story again,” Ruby groans. “Between your love story and this ice cream, I’m going to get a cavity.”

It’s likely he’ll get hell for all of this later, but for now, Killian only casts a furtive glance over to where Emma sits – and he can’t suppress the swell of delight that ripples through him at the fact that she seems to be watching him, too, a hint of an appreciative smile playing at the edge of her pink mouth. But then she seems to catch herself, and just like her eyes on his face, it’s gone in a flash.)

When it comes time to pick up their order, however, he stems the flow of squabbling before it can even begin. Although he doesn’t think it’s gotten quite cold enough for anyone to be complaining about a walk around the corner and back, he hadn’t needed to step foot in Emma’s apartment for more than a minute to know that even a tiny reprieve of fresh air could do him some good.

He’s in for a long night, to be sure, and there’s no doubt he needs to get his woes tampered down away from it all while he has the chance.

(If he also needs some time to gather all of his strength to will his eyes from pointedly drifting, well, no one needs to know that either.)

What he doesn’t expect is for David to offer to accompany him.

It’s a nice enough gesture, given the sheer volume of food in their order (Ruby had insisted everything would be on the house, courtesy of blatant nepotism), but the frown he spots on Emma’s face has his caution prickling before they even leave the building. Though David had seemed pretty friendly, and Killian thinks he’d have to be to be engaged to someone as nice as Mary Margaret, sure enough, he appears to sober up the moment they set foot out on the street.

Killian isn’t sure whether the silence is meant to be gruff or companionable.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, playing with a loose piece of lint as they set a brisk pace down the sidewalk towards Granny’s. Best to at least attempt grasping onto the latter. “Thanks for inviting us to stay for dinner.”

“Of course.”

Killian glances over out of the corner of his eye, though the other man doesn’t even seem to notice. He frowns, trying again. “I suppose I should be offering my belated congratulations to you and Mary Margaret.”

David’s brows furrow. “Sorry?”

“You’re, er, engaged, right?”

“Oh.” His head gives a little shake, as if to clear it. “Right. Thanks.”

“Do you… have a date set for the wedding yet?”

“Sometime next spring,” David says, then turns to him with a strange expression. “She’ll probably invite you, by the way.”

It takes him a split-second longer than it should for him to realize he’s not talking about Emma. “Mary Margaret?” He snorts, shaking his head. “She barely knows me. It’s quite all right.”

“Not a prerequisite,” David tells him with a shrug. “She’d probably invite half the city if she knew their names.”

_Their names_. His heart skittering before he can even begin to process why, Killian’s mind flickers back to the apartment, when she’d offered her hand in an introduction that had been prematurely aborted. He knew there was a reason his name had sounded so strange on her tongue. “I… that might make venue-hunting a tad difficult.”

David chuckles. “You’re telling me. It’s already a disaster.”

It’s the kind of opening he’d wanted, but he doesn’t take it. He swears Mary Margaret had called him Killian, and he doubts she’d heard his mumbled greeting to David from the doorway – but if she’d already known his name, doesn’t that mean she’d had to have heard it somewhere before?

Or, more specifically, from some _one_ before?

“Hey,” David says suddenly. “Can I ask you something a little weird?”

The question alone would have been enough of an ominous start, so the unreadable look that still clouds his face is just the icing on the cake. Killian clears his throat. “I’m afraid even my remarkable prowess at wedding planning can’t help your fiancée’s affinity for strangers, mate,” he starts to say, but he barely gets two words out before David rushes on, as if adamant to get it all out before he hears an outright refusal.

“Do you have feelings for Emma?”

* * *

“God _damn_ , what is _taking_ them so long?” Ruby sighs, her feet dangling over the top of the sofa as she flips through the television channels upside-down. Steadfastly ignoring the look of adoration Victor is sending in his girlfriend’s direction, Emma glances at the clock and is inclined to agree. It’s never taken her more than five minutes to get to Granny’s – in the winter, when she’s cold and craving chicken noodle soup like nobody’s business, she sometimes makes it there and back in the same amount of time – but it’s been nearly twenty minutes since Killian left with David (the apple bake motion had been vetoed, so no chance of a delay on that front), and she tries not to think about how that thought makes her nervous for a whole different slew of reasons.

It just crosses her mind that maybe she should have gone with Killian instead – not for anything but to avoid being cooped up with a pair a lovebirds, a father trying to calm his fussy kid, and a hungry pregnant woman, of course, because what other reason might there be? – when her door bursts open, heralding the most welcoming sight her grumbling belly has ever seen. And _not_ in the metaphorical way, either.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Mary Margaret exclaims, rising to assist her husband with the towering stack of paper bags in his arms. It’s mostly knee-jerk instinct that forces Emma after her, born of an aversion to being unhelpful in her own apartment, so she doesn’t quite realize what she’s doing until she’s already at the doorway.

That, of course, means she has almost no time at all to steel herself.

Killian’s cheeks are tinged pink, his fingers cold when they brush against hers, relinquishing half of his own load of delicious-smelling food. It has to be the scent of grease that makes her stomach knot in on itself before she can even take a step back.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, but takes him a moment longer than it should to meet her gaze, a steady smile on his face.

She tries to smile back. The corners of her mouth feel stiff. “Hold-up at Granny’s?” she asks quietly, ignoring the way the room is bursting to life behind her. She swears, she’s never had this many people over at once before, and it’s weird, and different, but not in a bad way – especially when she’s trying to have a private conversation (though the thought of singling out Killian while her friends bustle around them makes her insides flip with apprehension).

“Something like that,” he agrees. Her internal alarm registers a faint _ping_ , but then Ruby’s wrapping an arm around her shoulders and dragging her to the kitchen, singing something about parmesan truffle fries, and the thought flies right out of her mind.

_Nothing’s wrong_ , she tells herself. It’s not an unfamiliar thought to accompany the circumstances, but it’s an uneasy lie all the same. _Nothing’s wrong._

Because, really, what is there for her to complain about? There had once been a time when the idea of being surrounded by friends and food – and in an apartment all her own, no less – would have been completely foreign to her, and if she’s struggling to assign that label to the man who had somehow guessed all of that without even trying, the man she hasn’t been able to put out of her thoughts since… that last time, well, that’s on her.

She’d been completely genuine with him: the truth has been out there for longer than she’d care to admit, and she’s had more than enough time to deal with it, often vocally, often with equally riled-up agreement.

So why does she feel like it’s something she needs to hide?

(Maybe she’s the one who’s hiding, honestly – as if the highest walls in the world could stop her from thinking about it, could stop her heart from wrenching in her chest no matter how stupid all of this is in the first place.)

(She’s reached for that empty spot on her left ring finger more times than she can count over the past few days, and it doesn’t help that every time she grasps at air, Killian’s stricken, though no less undeniably contrite, face flashes like fire through her mind.)

(Could anyone blame her if she admitted she didn’t want to see it again?)

Everyone’s gathered in her living room, despite her perfectly functional dining room table and the breakfast bar David had painstakingly installed last year – but it’s all the better that they’re turned away from where she escapes to the kitchen under the guise of getting another drink. Mary Margaret had unearthed the old game system they’d stashed under the television, and nothing says _noise violation_ like watching her friends simultaneously intake and burn off their dinner calories with a cutthroat round of Mario Kart, to which Roland was invited but refused in favor of coloring (to universal relief).

Emma lingers, pretending to survey the contents of her mug cabinet. While she does wonder if it’d be too early for another hot chocolate, to hell with Victor and his stupid medical degree reminding her that the sugar would only set her nerves even more on edge, she has to admit she’s running out of excuses to occupy her gaze, since her conscience has apparently chosen today to be an especially persistent glutton for punishment. As it is, she already knows too much about how Killian looks when he’s picking apart a grilled cheese sandwich and being, weirdly, a lot quieter than normal.

“Need help?”

Especially against the backdrop of shouting, the voice is barely a murmur, but she jumps anyway. It takes her a second too long for her to turn, swallowing her heartbeat, along with whatever else it might have dredged up.

“I’m not _that_ short.”

Leaning against the counter, Killian reaches behind his ear, his mouth tilting at the edges in an annoyingly coy not-quite-smile. “I suppose I shouldn’t be impressed that you have a dedicated cabinet for your poison of choice.” He shuffles the two steps between them and grabs a black mug on one of the topmost shelves, despite the perfectly good selection within easier grasp.

She snorts. “I have a step stool, too.” But she takes the proffered cup anyway.

It doesn’t take a genius to suspect where this is heading, and, sure enough, her hopes are quashed the second he glances over his shoulder at her packed living room. He’s stilled a good distance away, so it’s how he lowers his voice even further that makes it clear he’s trying to be discreet.

“Do you have a moment?”

“Is this really the time?”

“Swan,” he begins, “about—”

“Killian, you already—”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, cutting her off before she can finish the protest.

She exhales, long and slow, and she’s surprised to discover it isn’t born of exasperation. “I know.” For the first time since he stepped foot in her apartment today, she lets herself study his face properly – and while this apology certainly holds every bit of sincerity he’d offered her before, there’s a firm edge to the way he sets his jaw that she much prefers to the reeling expression in her memories. She catches herself before she can reach with her right hand for her left.

“I’m aware, but still,” he says. He holds her unwavering gaze. “I’m sorry. What happened last time… it was an inexcusable invasion of your privacy, and I shouldn’t have been nosing about your personal life without your permission.”

“It was an accident,” she corrects him. “I know you didn’t mean any harm.”

He shakes his head. “That doesn’t negate the consequences any more than if I had meant it.”

“There are no—” She bites her lip. “It happened a long time ago, Killian. It’s in the past – just like what happened two weeks ago.” That video, along with all the others, the pictures, and every last digital trace of the mistakes three years behind her, have been safely locked back away in the hard drive buried at the bottom of her closet. It was idiotic for her to have dug it up in the first place.

Over in the living room, Victor’s laugh drowns out David’s yelling about the unfairness of blue shells, but Killian remains silent, watching her with a look on his face that she knows, her spirits sinking, means trouble.

He doesn’t believe her.

She huffs out a sharp exhale. “Look,” she says emphatically, grasping the mug he’d retrieved with both of her hands, squaring her shoulders to face him head-on. “I’m going to be blunt. I know both of us feel weird, and we’d have to be stupid not to know why. Can’t we just…” A grimace tugs at her mouth; it sounds silly without even speaking it aloud, but she doesn’t know what else to do. “Can’t we just pretend all that didn’t happen? Go back to how things were before?”

He raises a single dark eyebrow, which is, at least, familiar territory. “And how was that, love?”

“You tell me.” There’s a suspicious twinkle in his eye, one that belies the glimmer of determination still fixed in his features, and, unbidden, his words come to mind: _Maybe it’s better not having anyone to care too much about_. She remembers the heat of his thigh nearly pressed against her bare leg, the unnerving sharpness with which his gaze – far too understanding for comfort – had searched her face. She’d much rather call them friends and be done with it.

“I’m afraid,” he says finally, after a long moment of consideration, “that I can’t do that, Swan.”

Something twists in her chest, faint but ridiculous all the same. “Why not?”

He takes a deep breath, though she has the feeling he already knows what he’s about to say. “I’d much rather apologize and move on from what happened than act like it didn’t.” For no good reason at all, she feels like squirming under his blue stare, even as it softens into something she doesn’t want to identify. “Forward instead of backward – that’s the direction life should proceed, no?”

He’s right, of course; hadn’t she only just said it was in the past? Still, she finds herself sighing. “Killian, why are you telling me this?”

A pause – but not a hesitation.

“Because I want to know you, Swan.” He says it slowly, his tongue wrapping around each word with so much conviction, she doesn’t think she could find a lie in his words if she tried. Despite that, it’s the way he smiles, clear and brighter than daylight, that forces her to swallow. “I want to know you, and I don’t want to go behind your back to do it.”

For what feels like a long time, it’s all she can do to just return his gaze. There’s a gentle fluttering stuck in her throat, like the sound of footsteps she’s become far too accustomed to over the years, but this time, she stays right where she is. It takes her longer than it should for her to realize that he’s waiting for an answer.

“Good,” she whispers.

It’s a quiet admission, one she isn’t sure he hears – at least, until he exhales, his smile curving wide and pleased and so genuine, she feels her mouth twist in return before she can help it.

It’s just as real, too.

_Good._

“Oi, lovebirds!” Emma startles, watches him tear his eyes from hers with similar surprise. Only a few feet away, it seems Ruby’s draped herself over the back of the sofa nearest the kitchen, waggling her controller in their direction. She supposes she should be thankful that, behind her, only two faces have turned at the sound of her voice, as Victor appears to be commemorating his utter defeat by burying his nose in his phone, while Mary Margaret has her gaze pointedly fixed on the far wall, as if determined to give them privacy.

Except – that seems to be a moot consideration, given the attention Ruby’s drawn to their absence, and while Robin she can understand, she’s not sure what to make of David fixing Killian under some strange kind of scrutiny, as well. Though she certainly won’t complain about it, either, when that’s one less person she has to worry about as she tries to rearrange her expression.

“What?” she says in the most impassive voice she can muster. From beside her comes a snort that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle.

“Are you rotating in or not?” Ruby asks, then turning to Killian: “Your buddy here could really use the help.”

“At least I didn’t come in dead last,” Robin hedges from the other couch, which prompts a miffed cough from Victor.

“The item system is imbalanced.”

“Sore losers are imbalanced,” Ruby tells him sweetly.

Emma shakes her head as she turns away from the living room. There’s a small but distinct irritation gnawing at the edges of her thoughts, but she doesn’t have time to dwell on the prospect of uninterrupted conversations – or, worse, actually wishing for them when they don’t have any business in this crowded apartment.

But, at the very least, she’s glad for how easily her words for him come now, and that’s what reassures her, more than anything, that the answer she’d given him ( _I want to know you._ ) wasn’t a mistake. “You think you can save eighth place?”

He cocks his head. “Competitive, are we, love?”

“Only when I know I can kick your ass,” she tells him, shrugging, though there’s no question that her grin from before Ruby’s interruption is making an involuntary appearance on her face, too.

The way his turns lopsided, mischievous – swooping low in her belly, a fucking _distraction_ – suddenly has her not so confident that’s a sure thing after all.

She sets her empty mug onto the counter, vaguely wishing she’d had that hot chocolate while she had the chance, if only to gear her up for what’s sure to be a trying match (one way or another). But then, just as she passes by him, so quietly she’s sure the words are meant just for her, he murmurs, “You underestimate my abilities at excelling from behind.”

The laugh, cruder and louder than she means it, bursts from her lips so unexpectedly, she’s sure three more pairs of eyes swivel in her direction before she can smother it with her hand. A serene smile on his face, Killian beats her out of the kitchen before she can respond to that, though she isn’t sure if there’s a comeback in existence that could salvage her dignity at this point.

_I don’t want to go behind your back to do it._

Even as she feels the heat color her cheeks, she’s only too relieved that his transit to the living room has provided their friends a sufficient enough distraction to give that instinctive, goddamn _irrelevant_ thought the secrecy it deserves. She watches him squeeze in between Robin and David, roll his eyes at something Ruby says – she’s not really paying enough attention to hear it, not when she’s still biting the inside of her cheek hard to keep her chagrin at bay.

(At home in her apartment indeed.)

(Except, for a mad second, it looks so right that she can’t even think to complain, like a puzzle piece fitting neatly into a place she hadn’t even realized was empty, until it wasn’t.)

On the couch from which she’s still trying to tear her gaze, Killian looks up and catches her eye, and it takes nearly everything she has to keep herself from grinning back.

Honestly?

_Fuck._


	6. Chapter 6

If he were anyone else, he may not have noticed it: the flash of blond hair, quicker and brighter than a bolt of lightning.

But, as it is, he’s probably a little more aware of the apartment down the hallway than the average visitor exiting Robin’s, and so he finds his eyes flickering to 3B, out of instinct more than anything else, as he fishes in his pocket for the spare key.

“Swa—”

The door swings shut.

He frowns, fingers wrapped around his keychain (a colorful jumble of plastic Roland had made at school). While there have certainly been nights in the past where he’s lost some sleep over the woman in question, he doesn’t think he’s as far gone as to have started hallucinating her image – but, then again, he’s been surprised by Emma Swan before. Like every time she lets herself laugh around him, real and full (he suspects some of those may have been unintentional, but won’t complain either way), or that one time she’d waved at him through her living room window as he passed by and he’d nearly fallen off of the fire escape.

(Except, he surmises: they’re friends, and that’s just the kind of things friends do. It’s his reaction to it that’s the problem, as much as he tells himself that it isn’t.)

(He also manages to convince himself that conveniently forgetting his key to Robin’s a little more often than usual is, too, the kind of thing friends do, but he’s rather sure Robin doesn’t buy it as much as he pretends he does.)

In any case, an awfully strange renewal of her previous disappearing act, however mutual it had once been (and a few weeks past at that), isn’t quite the sort of surprise he’d ever hope for.

Maybe she just hadn’t heard him?

Maybe he’s fumbling for excuses.

Shaking his head, he turns back around to lock the door, pats the strap of his guitar case across his chest just to make sure he hasn’t forgotten it (again). He’s just about ready to pass it all off as a figment of his imagination, so, of course, that’s when he hears it.

A faint but unmistakable _thud_ from the flat down the hall.

He should probably be ashamed at how quickly his head turns.

His first thought, to his chagrin, is that she must have company. He stares at the flat pane of her door and tries not to let the idea get the better of him, even as it burrows a ridiculous weight into his chest like he’s a bloody teenaged cliché – as if he hadn’t only just proclaimed them _friends_ , and nothing more.

His second thought is that something might have happened to her, however capable she may have already proven herself to be.

He hesitates. The neighborly-ish thing to do would be to at least check to make sure she’s okay, wouldn’t it? He certainly has no intention of trying to eavesdrop on anything she may or may not be doing, with or without someone else, behind those walls.

But even as he nears, what feels suspiciously like dread curdling in the pit of his stomach, he’s greeted with nothing but silence from her doorstep. He isn’t sure whether or not to knock, hovering there with his hand raised – except the second he so much as brushes the wood with his indecision, the door creaks open against his knuckles, not properly closed at all.

No matter how quickly he jumps back, the damage is already done.

“Er, Swan?” He grimaces; he sounds like a bloody lunatic. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

And then he notices the reason the door has stopped moving.

“Killian?” Her eyes wide, Emma blinks up at him from the floor – and the sight alone drops his heart just as far, even if he hasn’t a clue for context. Her cheekbones are dusted pink from what he assumes is the cold outside, as is likely the reason for her tousled hair, but she seems to have neglected removing her coat and scarf before she’d assumed her position on the ground, her back against the foyer wall, her knees bent just enough to catch the door halfway open.

The words are out of his mouth before he can help it, regardless of how obvious the answer should be. “Emma, are you—?”

“Oh, I— yeah, I’m fine; I’m fine.” She braces herself against the wall to try to stagger to her feet, but he knows without even watching her fumble that it’s a lie. His hand darts out to grasp hers before he can think twice about it.

Hers is like an ice block, far colder than the weather should warrant, and it feels slick with clammy sweat.

“You don’t seem fine,” he tells her honestly, and it’s probably indicative of how much truth those words actually hold that she doesn’t counter with a jab back.

“Really, I’m good.”

He frowns. “So, you just… decided to get reacquainted with the floor?”

This time, her green eyes narrow. “I don’t tell you how to spend your spare time.”

“Perhaps you should. You seem to have quite a good handle on it.” She snorts, though he detects a hint of a smile curving the edges of her lovely mouth, and it’s only then that he realizes that their hands are still joined. Cold as her skin was, a twinge of disappointment still jerks through his fingers as soon as he lets go.

“Swan,” he says seriously. He makes sure to look her right in the eye as he stands his ground, because he needs to ask it, just once more. “Are you sure you’re all right?” If she brushes him away again, he tells himself – he’ll leave. As much as he’s loathe to, there’s only so much prodding he can do before it becomes too insistent, and he’s not about to embark down that path again.

Even aided by the thick heels of her boots, she still has to tilt her face up to meet his gaze properly. There’s a windswept lock of blond hair curling across her temple the wrong way, and the temptation to brush it back nearly distracts him from how her tongue darts out against her lips.

She seems to pull into herself, her padded arms tugging tighter around her chest, and she exhales a sigh that seems unsteady, her expression disconcertingly unreadable.

“Do you have a show tonight?”

He blinks in confusion, but she only gestures over his shoulder – where, he remembers, his guitar still hangs. “You play near here, don’t you?” she asks again.

“I’m afraid if you’re after pity points for an answer,” he says, cocking his head, “you’re going to actually have to admit that something’s wrong.”

She stares at him for another long moment, and then her lashes flutter as she lets out another breath – this time, almost a laugh. And then, to his dismay, she leans back against the wall, slides all the way down back to the floor.

A slender hand scrubs over her face before it settles for pinching over the bridge of her nose, but she’s speaking before he can even begin to figure out what he wants to say.

“It’s the stupidest fucking thing.”

Her voice is almost a groan – tired, he thinks, but he doesn’t like to consider the word _defeated_ when it comes to her. “Try me.”

“Aren’t you going to be late to your gig?”

“Perhaps,” he admits. Ignoring the tight fit of his jeans (the bar crowd likes them, so he won’t complain), he squats down to meet her, which just so happens to allow the door to swing closed at his side. It’s probably the leap in privacy that allows him to lower his voice, or so he tells himself. “But I’d like to keep my priorities in order.”

Her eyes dart back up to meet his, like the skittish flit of a dragonfly, but she blinks away faster than he thinks he could have conveyed just how much he means it. Tucked under her chin, her slender throat works down a swallow.

“Look, Killian…” she sighs. There are a million ways she can finish that sentence, and a million more things he doesn’t want to hear – except he needs her to say it anyway.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks quietly.

For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. The hand she’s kept hovering near her face runs over her brow again, her shoulders falling with a long, tremulous exhale, before it drops to meet the other propped up on her knee – and he doesn’t have to be as shamefully attuned to her as he is to notice the way the fingers on her right hand reach for the fourth one on her left, as if on absentminded instinct.

“No,” she murmurs, without looking up.

Her words – or, rather, word – from before come to mind, against the backdrop of spirited yelling in the living room just feet away: _Good_.

_I want to know you._

He hadn’t needed David’s keen scrutiny to know that was the truth, to know that’d have been the truth no matter her answer.

Peeling the strap from his clothes, he carefully deposits his guitar case against the foyer wall opposite where she sits. His jacket comes next, draped neatly over the top of the body.

And then he heads to her kitchen without another word.

* * *

Hot fucking chocolate.

Of course he comes back bearing two mugs of the stuff, and he’d managed to excavate her fridge for the whipped cream, too. Maybe she’s a little biased, but there’s just something about the image he makes with both hands full of her drink, rolled-up sleeves and dark wool sweater, that chases the cold from her fingertips before she can decide whether or not she wants it to stay.

The mug he pushes toward her is the same one from the upper shelf of her cabinet, the one he’d retrieved for her last time he was here. The one he keeps is covered in tiny yellow ducklings, and, out of pure reflex, she hesitates, her reach faltering halfway to meet his.

“Oh.” He twists the mug she has locked in her sights, trying to get a better look at it. “Is this one yours?”

Despite her muddled mind, she manages to heft him the tiniest of grins. “Swan, remember?”

A low snort escapes his nose, but his smile is apologetic. “Very creative, love,” he shakes his head. “But unfortunately, I neglected to add cinnamon to this one, so it’s your decision whether you’d like to go without.”

Her thoughts flicker back in time to a much warmer day, watching him wrap his lips around the rim of a beer bottle as she rummaged around in her kitchen. It seems like far too long ago for him to have remembered, and yet, here he stands.

She takes the other mug, the one adorned with a skull and crossbones (a warning, apparently, for her dental health given her poor dietary habits, though she’s inclined to associate it with something a little more fun, and a little more swashbuckling, than that).

“Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome, love,” he tells her, settling down next to his guitar and jacket against the opposite wall. Her living room has couches that are still in perfectly good order (somehow, after everything her stupid friends have put them through), so it feels a little ridiculous, sitting with him on the cold floor like this. Especially when she still hasn’t so much as unbuttoned her coat. Especially when she knows he has another commitment he’s ignoring to drink hot chocolate with his friend’s next-door neighbor.

The first sip is scalding, but the heat settles into her bones like relief.

He doesn’t speak.

“Am I ever going to hear you play?” she finds herself asking, on impulse more than anything else, after she finishes making sure she’s free of whipped cream.

Humor tugs at the edges of his mouth, and it’s almost enough to bring a sense of normalcy to this entire situation. “You’d really like to?”

Even though she knows the answer, she shrugs. “It’d be nice to have something to narrow down the options for the venue,” she says. “If you’re awful, I’d only have to check into the grimier joints.”

“The advantages of being a bail bondsperson, is it?” he chuckles. “Perhaps that could be called an abuse of power.”

“I’m not a cop. It’s not like I’d be going in with a warrant.”

“No handcuffs either?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He only grins around the rim of his mug, blue eyes dancing as he takes another sip.

The stutter in her chest, however, is born not only of that mischievous look, nor just of his stupid attempt at being charming (it’s a successful attempt, if she’s being honest) – but of those things in junction with something else. With the familiarity of it reminding her why she’s here right now at all.

But she’d told him to stay, anyway. She’d _wanted_ him to stay.

Just to drop her gaze, she mimics him in bringing her own cup back to her lips.

“What was his name?”

She starts. “Sorry?”

His head tilts in a meaningful gesture towards her hands, and she realizes, far too late, that she’s been rubbing that same spot again, even with her fingers splayed around the warm ceramic. Maybe she hadn’t been as subtle about it as she’d hoped, but there’s still something to be said about how quickly he’s put two and two together, between that ridiculous video and, now, this.

She takes in a steadying breath. “Neal.” It should be surprising, perhaps, that it doesn’t burn on the way out. Then again, it never really was his name that was the problem, and it’s not the problem right now, either.

“Neal,” he repeats quietly. It sounds strange in his voice, like a foreign word wrapped in his tongue, something she almost wishes she didn’t have to hear him say at all. But he doesn’t speak any more – just nods, as if to himself.

_He won’t ask,_ she realizes. Despite the circumstances, he looks remarkably comfortable, leaning back against the wall like he’s in this for the long haul, duckling-patterned mug folded neatly between his hands, and she knows with absolute certainty that he has no intention of actually searching her for any real rhyme or reason for it. For any of this.

That’s probably why she begins to speak at all, dredging the nerve up from the very depths of her courage, from a place she’d forgotten existed until she feels it now, thrumming a wary rhythm against the walls her chest.

“It’s just—” She groans, shaking her head, but the words refuse to come. “I just don’t understand _why_ —” He’s silent, his gaze transparent as the sky, from what she sees of it before she closes her eyes. “You know how things have a way of just… No matter how long it’s been, or how little you’ve come to care, really, all it takes is one little reminder, and the past just comes barreling back at you, and, just like that, you’ve been punched in the gut all over again?”

There’s a pause before his reply. “Yes, I know.”

“It’s just— ridiculous things you’d put behind you, except the moment they so much as fucking sputter back to life, you’re back there again. It’s like everything happened yesterday, and it…” She falters. It’s hard to describe the feeling, that hollow ache that sears through her, after all this time. “It _sucks_ ,” she says at last, in an astounding feat of eloquence.

“It hurts,” he adds simply.

She hates it when he puts it like that. Like three years and the highest walls she managed to build could still tremble in the face of, well, a _face_. One barely glimpsed, at that – from the end of an aisle at the most insignificant convenience store in the world, even after she’d already come to terms that it was a possibility. That she had no reason to run, like she’d always done, time and time again.

The air, somehow, feels more difficult to swallow.

“It makes no sense,” she amends instead, and it’s the hardest thing in the world to keep her voice from faltering. “That’s the worst part about it. I know life doesn’t work like that, that it isn’t _fair_ , but all this time… it has to have accounted for _something_.” She shakes her head, unable to suppress her resentful snort. “Though I guess we always end up sabotaging ourselves anyway, so maybe that’s a moot point.”

He seems to hesitate. “Sabotaging?”

“Chasing after it, that feeling.” That awful video, still saved on her old hard drive. The lock pick set she hasn’t found the nerve to just toss in the trash and never look back. If she were Ruby, social media stalking would be on that list, too. She sighs, rubbing the space between her eyes. “It’s like an addiction, being sentimental.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, her words are met with a long, pregnant silence, but, to her relief, she’s not embarrassed for having said them. Worried they may have been nonsensical? Maybe. Frustrated that they hold any truth for her at all? Without a doubt. But, in the state she’s in right now, the thoughts are more welcome a bitter heaviness outside her head than in it, and she can’t bring herself to regret it at all when she finally pries her eyes open and takes in the serious expression on his face – purposeful, determined, as if he’s just come to a resolution.

He sits up, sets the mug down beside him with great care, and reaches for something under his sweater, just behind his collarbone.

It’s a ring. A ring on a long chain looped low around his neck.

“This was my mother’s,” he says quietly. Even from where she’s sitting, she can see that it’s a simple design, though unmistakably elegant where he turns it to catch the light. “After my brother passed, it was left to me. And…” he lets out a slow, quiet breath, “it was left to me, again, after the woman to whom I proposed decided to move on.”

Her heart squeezes right up into her throat. “Oh, god, Killian, I didn’t—”

“—know,” he fills in, his lips pressed into a rueful smile. “I’m aware, love. Though you’ve done nothing to warrant such a guilty reaction.”

And yet – the guilt is still there, coiled tight between her ribs. _He’d been engaged, too_. He should have told her.

He had no real reason to tell her, even after learning of her own story.

But he’s telling her now.

His eyes seem to trace the delicate lines of the ring, a dainty thing between his broad fingers, holding it almost right up against his chest,

“Perhaps sentimentality is impossible to cure.” He says it like it’s a dirty admission, with just a hint of shame. “Perhaps we refuse to let go because it reminds us that we could _feel_ – intensely, truly, whether good or bad. Perhaps that’s all we really want.”

She can tell he isn’t entirely sure if he believes it either – just like she knows, with the same surety, that showing her the ring isn’t meant to be a ploy for her attention, or her pity. All the same, every throb of her heart beats heavy with the weight of knowing. Of understanding, just as much as he does, the true weight of what he holds in his hand and latches, with a chain, close to his heart.

“How long?”

“Hm?” He finally looks up, and she gets the distinct feeling he’s just snapped back to the present from miles and miles away.

“How long have you been wearing that?” she asks, though she isn’t quite sure if she wants to know the answer.

“You mean, how long has it been since it was returned to me?” he says, lips quirking wryly. That, too, is something she hadn’t wanted to say aloud, but she refuses to be chagrined. He only shakes his head. “It hasn’t even been a year.”

_God_. She remembers that fresh pain with poignant clarity – and, actually, after what happened earlier today, she thinks she just might be on the same page. It’s a burden she shouldn’t want to wish upon anyone, especially someone, she remembers, who carries scars older still, but if anyone should be here right now, telling her this…

Somehow, she’s glad it’s him.

“Truthfully, though, love, it’s not as heavy as you’d think.” She snaps her head up without having even realized her gaze had drifted; she hadn’t expected him to continue, especially not with words like those. There’s a hint of a small smile on his face, almost rueful, innocent in its earnestness. “I actually seem to have gotten into the habit of forgetting I’m wearing it,” he says, cocking his head. “I imagine that started right around the time that I met you.”

There’s a response to that. She knows there is, somewhere in the jumbled mess of her mind. But, as it happens, she can only blink back at him, not embarrassed, or even angry.

Yeah – she’s still glad.

Before she can help it, she feels her mouth tug into a careful, tremulous smile, and the feeling of it kindles through the brimming ache in her chest. _Forward instead of backward_.

“Cheesy,” she mutters, despite herself, and for everything she’s had to be embarrassed about today, what embarrasses her the most is how much fondness she’s somehow managed to imbue into that single word. So much so that she forces her gaze downward to avoid seeing his reaction.

That’s why she hears it instead: a light chuckle that makes her insides squirm. She presses her lips together, and, in an effort to convince herself that it was not, in fact, born of delight at that sound, she forces herself to look up, determinedly reminding herself whom she’s talking to. Unfortunately, with that unabashed look in his eye and the distractingly pleased tilt of his mouth, it doesn’t exactly work. She holds his gaze for one long moment before he says, without a hint of teasing, “At least it made you smile.”

She tries to swallow it down, she really does, but there’s no denying it now. “So, what?” she asks, and it takes the space of one exhale for her to wrap her tongue around the words to fill it up. “Mission accomplished?”

He leans forward, propping his forearms across his knees. “You tell me, darling.”

Honestly, she almost doesn’t want to. But her ass is asleep thanks to the hard floor, and she knows if she took a sip, her hot chocolate would only be lukewarm, and she probably should be a little more ashamed at how much harder it is to tell him this truth than anything else.

(It’s becoming disconcertingly clear which truths fall easily from her tongue when it comes to him, which is _definitely_ something to consider another time.)

“You’re going to be late to your gig,” she tells him at last, and before she can change her mind, she clambers to her feet, much more stable than last time. Balancing her half-full mug in one hand, she holds out a hand for him to use as he rises to his feet as well, though not without an amused shake of his head. He probably could have gone without the help, but she figures it’s only fair.

“I told you, Swan: I have my priorities,” he says once he rights himself, setting his own mug onto the entryway table as he brushes off his jeans. “And besides, it’s a Friday evening bar crowd. Punctuality shouldn’t be much expected of anyone on the premises.”

She tilts her head to narrow her eyes at him, though she suspects the effect doesn’t quite come across properly. “And after all this, you still won’t tell me where?”

This earns her a full laugh. “If I’ve learned anything about you at all, love, it’s that you don’t much appreciate anyone’s pity.”

_Ridiculously perceptive, as always._

It’s only when he starts shrugging into his jacket that she realizes that she’s still wearing hers, and she manages to finally strip down to an appropriate indoor state in the time that it takes him to finish bundling up, to sling his guitar over his shoulder with remarkable grace. She knows he wouldn’t be leaving now had he not already been certain of her well-being, but she needs to tell him so anyway.

“Killian.” She catches his hand before he can make it to the door. His eyebrow quirks, a trace of that lingering smile still touching his mouth. “Thank you,” she says, with as much sincerity as she can muster. “Really, I mean it.”

The way he blinks at her, she gets the feeling he really hadn’t thought much of it at all. “Of course, love.” He squeezes her once before dropping his grip. “Ducklings are all yours, now.”

And, with a wink, he’s pulling her door open, and he’s gone. She props herself against the doorframe, watches him make his way to the stairs, all the way until his leather-clad shoulders and that mussed dark hair disappears from view as he leaves – and all the while, she wonders, in vain, when she’d started wishing he didn’t have to at all.


	7. Chapter 7

There’s a tupperware of cupcakes tucked into the back corner of Robin’s kitchen counter – one Killian’s sure as hell he didn’t bake himself.

“What are these?”

Robin twists from the fridge to glance over his shoulder, his gaze following the path of Killian’s soapy fingers. He’s not a conspiracy theorist, but he is familiar enough with the Locksley household to know that most of the sweets are kept well out of sight of a certain three-and-a-half-foot-tall preschooler. He’s also observant enough to know that Regina Mills deals solely in apple pastries, as, apparently, everything else she makes tastes like poison, and while he once wouldn’t have put it past her for that to have been an intentional move, something tells him she’s not quite as interested in murdering Robin today.

(That, he’s decided, is the full extent to which he’s interested in knowing about whatever the hell their relationship is now.)

“Cupcakes,” Robin says simply, turning back to continue rearranging the remnants of their meal. Roland’s voice carries with the sound from the television, an off-key nonsensical tune Killian swears he’s memorized by this point. “I forgot: Emma dropped them off. Said they were for you.”

“What?” He almost loses his grasp on the slippery plate in his hand, and he can tell without even seeing his face that Robin’s hiding a smirk. “When?” he demands. “Like hell you forgot.”

“Like hell you’re staying away from my next-door neighbor,” Robin shoots back. By the time he finally meets his gaze, Killian’s pretty sure he’s dripped soapy water all over the floor in front of the sink. “She said to tell you _thanks_ ,” he continues, crossing his arms across his chest. “What in blazes did you do to that poor woman?”

The slick surface of his friend’s dinnerware vanishes in favor of warm, soft fingers curled around his. That, however, is distinctly not the reason he feels his face prickle with heat.

“I’m sure you know as well as I do,” he snorts, shaking his head, “I haven’t got a chance of making Emma Swan say anything.”

“So why am I suddenly playing deliveryman to your cupcakes?”

“When did she drop them off?” Killian asks instead. He splashes the plate under the faucet, then props it up next to the others in the drying rack. A quick glance back at the tupperware tells him that she’d stuffed far too many inside (five, he counts, and then stifles his internal grin – one for him, each of the Locksleys, and Regina probably, the full breadth of people in his life she knows, but that still leaves one extra), that the thick white frosting has also been squished and mangled by the lid. The cupcake on the end bears the colorful mark of rainbow sprinkles.

“She came by earlier today,” Robin replies, and he hears the fridge door close behind him. “She also asked about the bar you play at.”

This time, he can’t help the laugh that bursts from his lips. “Did you tell her?”

“Why haven’t you?” A pause. “You love playing for people.” Killian has the feeling that observation was meant to be spoken in the past tense, with a name substituted instead of carefully generalized treading.

But he only continues rinsing the rest of the sink’s contents, as quickly as he feasibly can. “So you did?”

“Bloody hell,” Robin sighs. “I’m going to have to move when you properly muck this up, aren’t I?”

It’s an attempt at deflection – not from a proper answer, Killian knows, but from the weight of what had come close to mentioning. After all, the last time Milah had been discussed in this apartment, a generous supply of alcohol had been involved, along with a lot of cursing and mutual misery, courtesy of Regina Mills and her unfounded jealousy and horrible temperament. But something in his words has him irked for a different reason.

Dumping the sudsy contents of the last glass, Killian sets it carefully to dry, then turns around, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. “There’s nothing to muck up,” he says, with deliberate emphasis. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A tiny rivet forms between Robin’s dark brows. Roland’s giggle bursts to life from somewhere behind the couch, and it seems to take a moment longer than usual for understanding to trickle through the space of the kitchen between them. “You really care for her, don’t you?”

Killian snorts, pressing his lips together. If only to hide his expression (regardless of whether, according to David, the answer would be obvious either way), he swivels around to grab the tupperware in one smooth motion. “I’m going to go thank her for these,” he says. The rich scent of chocolate wafts upward when he cracks the lid open and excavates two of the cupcakes from their prison (though he leaves the one with the sprinkles) – they certainly smell homemade.

He hears Robin’s sigh, and then the call after him, heavy on the sarcasm: “Should I wait up for you?”

Killian doesn’t even bother to look over his shoulder. “I’m leaving my jacket here, you wanker.”

Admittedly, the hallway outside is draftier than he’d expected, so maybe he should have chosen a different kind of assurance: the chill cuts right through his thin t-shirt as he makes the short trek down to 3B. He tells himself that’s the reason he’s so thankful for how quickly she answers the door after he knocks.

But he learns even faster that he doesn’t have grounds in the slightest to complain about his lack of proper clothing.

“Hey,” Emma says, her mouth tilting in a surprised smile. His eyes flicker downward without his permission, caught by the movement of her rocking back on the heels of her bare feet – bare, bare, up to the tiniest pair of pajama shorts, nearly engulfed by the size of the red sweatshirt she’s pulling down her arms.

“Hey.” He has to swallow after that single choked word, but, luckily, she spares him the embarrassment, her gaze zeroing in on the cupcakes balanced in his hand with amused precision.

“I swear, if those taste weird, I didn’t lace them with anything.”

He bites back a grin and struggles to remember the reason he’s here. The desire to make a fool of himself instead is astounding. “You didn’t have to do this, love.”

“You didn’t have to do what you did, either,” she replies with a shrug. “So I guess we’re even.”

Again, the heat of her hand in his flares a phantom of a tingle through the nerves of his fingers – a quiet murmur in the arch of this very doorway. _Killian, thank you_.

He should be so lucky to hear her speak his name like that again.

“Not every appreciable action needs to be tangibly repaid,” he tells her at last. But her lovely green eyes only narrow.

“Were you late that day, by the way?”

It takes him a moment to realize her meaning. “To my performance?” he chuckles. “No, I wasn’t late. Though, on a related note, I did hear you’ve been asking certain people some very interesting questions regarding my professional life.

The blush spreads like a stain across her pale skin. “Stupid rumors through the grapevine, huh?”

“Something like that.” She only fixes him with a perfectly innocent look until he gives up and asks, “Well, did he tell you?”

“I don’t know,” she replies lightly. Her tight-lipped smile doesn’t even try to hide its serene secrecy, which only confirms his suspicions. “Why don’t you try asking Robin?”

“I can’t believe my closest friend and his neighbor are conspiring against me,” he mutters.

She laughs. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here, you know. But if you’re going to keep stalling, you should just—” She takes a step back from the doorway, giving him room to step inside. “It’s freezing.”

“Poor choice of attire will do that to you,” he says, though he doesn’t mean that descriptor in the slightest.

The warmth of her apartment is a welcome reprieve, even if he only shuffles to the spot in her foyer he’d occupied last time, his back against the wall across from where she’d sat. He feels the hard press of the ring beneath his shirt, its smooth edges between his fingers – but also the curve of the duckling mug, the taste of whipped cream sweet on his tongue. He’d used tap water and the chalky packaged mix he’s never really cared for, but he swears it was the best hot chocolate he’s ever had.

“What are you watching?” he asks, peering at her television. Rather than DVRed children’s cartoons, she seems to have some brightly-colored cooking show blaring quietly on the far screen.

“Uh. Food Network.” After she shuts the door behind them, she stands at his side, her hands shifting to her hips as if in defiance. “How else was I supposed to have learned how to bake?”

 _Seventeen years. That’s how long I was in the system_. “Had I known you’d acquired your cooking skills from television, I’d never have allowed you to help with the cookies for Roland’s bake sale.”

“Liar.” When he turns to her, though, there’s a glimmer of humor in her eye. “We both know those cookies sold out. And besides, it doesn’t even look like you’ve even tried those cupcakes.”

“Not yet,” he admits. He shifts one to his free hand and holds it out to her skeptical gaze.

“I already told you I didn’t lace them.”

“You made one extra.”

“No, I didn’t,” she tells him, with a touch too much defense.

“Then I suppose Robin will have to miss out.” He brandishes the cupcake more firmly in her direction, unable to contain his amusement at her stern expression, until she just rolls her eyes.

“Why,” she begins, her fingertips brushing his as she finally takes it, “does it seems like I’m always dealing with baked goods when it comes to you?”

“Sweets for the sweet?” he suggests, and relishes the sound of fond exasperation that escapes her mouth – a half-chuckle, half-sigh. “If you’d like to move away from baked goods, though, I would not be unopposed to dinner instead.”

Her lips press together in a thin pink line, twitching as though she’s trying very hard not to laugh. Finally, she says, “Why don’t we start with these cupcakes and take it from there?”

* * *

Emma leans back into the cushions behind her, narrowing her eyes. Her hair is a mess, she’s not wearing actual pants (again), and her fingers are sticky with frosting, but, at the moment, the only thing she cares about is her admittedly impressed disbelief.

“No.”

“You asked.”

“You’re lying,” she insists, but he only shrugs and picks away at another chunk of his cupcake, amusement flitting through his gaze like the sun on water. “You do not know how to make fucking bombe Alaska.”

“The only tricky part is setting it on fire,” he hedges, as if that’d help.

“That’s the only hard part about it.”

“Then I suppose I’m just about as proficient at making bombe Alaska as you are, love.”

She shakes her head. “What, did you learn how to make it in France, too?” It’s a sarcastic jibe, but his silence in response, the way his lips twist into a crooked smile, is more than telling. “What the hell?” she demands. “Who are you?”

“I used to travel a lot,” he admits, sheepishness tinging the tips of his ears in a way that doesn’t need a critical eye to spot. This information she files away into the back of her mind, where she keeps everything else she knows about Killian Jones – and, it seems, that might not be very much at all. At the very least, she supposes, given that reaction, she can place it right beside his unwillingness to allow her to hear him perform.

(She doesn’t want to use too much scrutiny at all right now, to be honest, because if she did, she knows that several things happening here would be highly suspect. The fact that she’d gone ahead and plopped herself down right beside him on the same couch, despite her lack of clothing and much-needed plans for a quiet night alone, doesn’t even rank – and that’s the worst part about it.)

He looks comfortable as ever in her living room, planted squarely where his ass had also been the night he’d spent, unaware, in her apartment. She tries to salvage the fraying ends of her concentration. “I guess it’s easier when everything on that side of the pond is so close together,” she says finally, deciding to throw him a bone.

“Er.” Despite his cupcake-covered hands, he makes to reach behind his ear before he catches himself. “I actually didn’t start until after I arrived here.” And then, in response to her off-guard frown, in a voice that sounds just the slightest over-detached: “Milah loved to travel.”

 _Milah_. She thinks of the ring he’d held between his fingers like a prayer, the way his eyes had clouded over with the memory of his admissions as he sat across from her on the floor. Even now, the smile on his face dims, and while she wants to say that’s the reason something in her chest twinges at the name she can finally put to his heart, assuming she’s reading him properly – even she can’t manage to make that lie sound real.

So, instead, she says, “Tell me about her.”

His blue eyes capture hers in a slow blink. “About Milah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You must have loved her a lot.” It’s a stupid answer, an obvious one that doesn’t really explain anything at all, but she locks her jaw and holds her ground, unwilling to acknowledge the word that should have come at the beginning: _because_.

He counters with a strange look, and he seems to bite his tongue as he considers her.

 _I want to know you_.

Finally, when he speaks, his words are slow with deliberate attention, spoken after a silence that feels like one long, apprehensive sigh.

“Milah was a free spirit,” he says. “She was bold. Adventurous. Like a gale that never stopped to take a breath.” He pauses, watching her with a serious look, distant but careful. “I think you would have gotten along quite well with her.”

She wants to ask. _What happened?_

“She sounds a lot like you.”

He cocks his head, the corners of his mouth tilting, and she wishes it would brighten the rest of his expression, too. “You think so?”

“I don’t know about that last part, about getting along,” she says with her best attempt at a coy shrug, “but I can’t think of many people who regularly go climbing up fire escapes and breaking into their friends’ apartments.”

“Those next-door to their friends,” he corrects her.

“And what do you call getting me to pick Robin’s lock for you?”

“A neighborly favor, of sorts.”

She only rolls her eyes, taking another bite of her cupcake. Even without Mary Margaret’s help, they’d turned out halfway decent, she’d been surprised to discover – just as she’s surprised at the way the tension in his shoulders seems to melt away now, as he licks his lips around the smile he finally returns without, apparently, even realizing it. Her bare feet are freezing, but the sight of it alone affords her more than enough warmth.

That’s why she probably shouldn’t be surprised at all by the words he speaks when he continues.

“For everything that Milah was, however,” he says, slowly, “there was something she was decidedly not.”

It feels like a trap. She almost expects his eyes to twinkle, like he’s ready to heft her an ambush of a smirk and turn it into some stupid flirty joke now that he’s got her attention – and, maybe, something in her wants him to. But she still hesitates when she asks, “And what was that?”

The way he’s looking at her – it’s like she’s something precious, not fragile but breakable all the same, which makes it all the more ridiculous that she feels her pulse skip in the way that she’s known in getting ready for a fight. At last, he says, “She wasn’t someone who made me want to be better.”

She wants to drop her eyes to her lap again. She wants to deflect. She doesn’t want to think about that hard drive and lock pick set in her closet, and how, for the first time since she’d buried them there, shaking with anger and something that had no place in her heart after she’d turned eighteen, she’d actually considered digging them out and throwing them into the trash where they belonged, after she’d finished washing both the duckling and pirate mugs from that afternoon.

 _Forward instead of backward._ Neal never would have said something like that. He’d have clung to his demons until the day he died, and, being with him, she knows she’d have drowned in the commiseration, have continued doing the same – had he not tired of her and left before she could realize what had happened. Sentimentality might be an addiction, but she refuses to let it bind her in place.

She’s better off for it, too.

“You have… uh.” There’s a wisp of frosting smudged at the corner of his mouth, one that she probably shouldn’t be pointing out instead of mustering up a response, and yet – maybe there are some steps forward that feel more like strides, her chest wrung tight, her blood skittering thick with an understanding she’s not in a state of mind to fully process.

She gestures, but his sticky fingers only make the smudge worse. His tongue darts out in the wrong place, and she spends longer than she probably should watching where it’d disappeared.

“Did you think I was going to say _you_?” She stares at him, at the way his lips curl with soft amusement even as he rubs the back of his hand against his lips. “When said there was something Milah wasn’t. You suspected I’d have said _you_ , didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” she says flatly, and she reaches forward to wipe the frosting off of his mouth with the pad of her thumb.

He tenses at her touch, smile freezing in place, but his lips are smooth, yielding. She can feel the breath he sucks in as she moves, and she wants to linger there, feel the warmth of it as it leaves him – but, before she can, she pulls back, and it’s over. Stray frosting secured. Arrogant idiot successfully quieted.

She looks up to meet his gaze now, and she swears his eyes have flickered into a darker, burnished blue, like plunging headfirst into a fathomless pool without breathing.

He’s still far too close.

Curling her fingers, tucking the ghost of his skin into her palm, she leans back into the couch again, and the air rushes back into her lungs the moment her shoulders hit cushion and he finally blinks with long, dark lashes. There’s something dazed in his expression, as though he’s having trouble looking at her directly.

She knows the feeling.

“Are you always this messy an eater?” she asks with a frown.

“Only when I can request assistance,” he says cheekily, but she finds she can’t blame him in the slightest.

Not one bit.


	8. Chapter 8

The strings tug at his fingers as he brushes them, just light enough to feel the reassuring silent twang in response.

He should be used to this by now – and he is, for the most part. The soft lighting in his corner of The Jolly Roger. The old barstool Smee had dragged out of the back. It’s all worn and familiar, like the touch of a longtime friend after coming home, just as it’d been the day after Liam’s funeral – after Killian had taken all the papers, handed them to Smee, and taken his place on the tiny stage without looking back to where he used to stand behind the counter.

It’d just been too easy to keep glancing over at that empty space beside him.

It’d been easy to keep searching for that flash of long mahogany hair in the crowd, too. Until the day that it hadn’t.

( _You love playing for people_. What Robin said hadn’t been wrong, exactly, and yet – something in him hesitates, and it tastes bitter with the tang of his cowardice.)

The floor is reasonably packed today. Liam would have been proud for the turnout they’re managing to scrape, but Killian won’t take credit for all of it, even if live music had originally been his idea. Over by the control box, Tink gives him the thumbs up, and he taps the microphone to test the speakers before he clears his throat.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.”

He’d once been wary of lifting his eyes beyond the edge of his guitar, but he’s been making a conscious effort to really look at the members of his audience, even if they aren’t particularly paying attention. Most of them aren’t, in fact – he can’t blame them; alcohol is an excellent companion for those who come alone – which makes him work even harder to appreciate the ones who do.

And that’s probably the only reason he notices them.

An unmistakable pixie-cut hovering by the far end of the bar. The tall man beside her. Lipstick so red he’d have to be blind to miss it, and a long blond ponytail that nearly causes his fingers to slip off the strings altogether. They enter halfway through the fourth song, and even if Ruby hadn’t wolf-whistled at the highest note in the bridge, he’d have had a difficult time making it through anyway.

_Bloody Robin._

He isn’t sure if Emma’s wide smile is maddeningly smug or a legitimate beam of satisfaction, but whatever it is, it’s blinding, and he can’t look away. She isn’t wearing that outrageous red dress from so long ago, the one of which she’d apparently been fond for snaring perps (his only context for her social attire, to be fair), though he doesn’t think he should be thanking anyone when the alternative is a leather jacket and tight jeans that he can tell fit her far too well, even from this distance.

He wants to call her out – call all of them out, to be honest. But when the song ends, he knows he needs to take a generous swig of water and soldier on with his set. There’s nothing to be gained from putting them in an awkward spotlight, even if he knows it’d coax the scowl out of Emma’s lips, when they can just up and leave at any given moment.

They stay.

They manage to snipe one of the standing tables near the back, and he watches as Will brings them their drinks, a second round, a third. Every time he looks up, he feels his gaze being drawn towards their corner, like a moth to a flame – and every time, Emma’s mouth seems to tilt upward the moment she snags his eye. He’s not nervous, per se, but there’s certainly something to be said about the rush that swells in his blood for playing here now, the one whose feeling he’s almost forgotten. Like picking up the guitar for the first time. Like falling in love with the music.

(He shouldn’t be even entertaining that thought about anything else.)

(But he swears she doesn’t takes her eyes off of him, not once. So maybe he is.)

He’d once been proud of his ability to carry a crowd through a good couple of hours, except now his set list feels just a few songs too long. He knows he’s in for a world of ribbing once he’s finally free, but he also has his own teasing to do about her bringing all of her friends here, and the itch just under his skin to simply march right off the stage and make a beeline to their table is more than a little distracting, especially as he nears the end. The crowd grows larger and louder the later it gets. He’s suddenly struck with the ridiculous notion that he might not even be able to find her once he’s finished.

It turns out, though, that he doesn’t have to worry about that even before he’s made it halfway through the last song.

One moment, he feels distinctly as though he’s exchanging a secret with her across the space of Liam’s bar, one he tucks away in the spot under where the ring beneath his shirt touches his skin.

The next, he glances over, where all of her friends still stand – and she’s gone.

* * *

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

She almost wishes she really did have to use the restroom, like she’d muttered to Mary Margaret before she’d slipped away. But at least here, in the back hallway of The _goddamn_ Jolly Roger – because of course Killian should play in the most notoriously niche bar in the city – she doesn’t have to feel like she’s hiding. Like she’s a _child_ , scared of the dark, of thunderstorms, of those shiny black social services cars all over again, instead of a perfectly functional adult with perfectly functional relationship problems.

Honestly, they aren’t even supposed to be problems anymore. But she should have known Neal would fuck everything up, like he always used to do. If only he didn’t have to do it in person, and now of all times.

She should be out there. She _wants_ to be out there. Robin had told her Killian’s show would end at midnight, and her phone had read five till the last time she checked it – right before she looked up, straight into the brown-eyed, laugh-lined face of the one person capable of breaking her resolve.

She hates it, hates _him_. And she hates herself even more for how she runs.

Well, she doesn’t _technically_ run, though for her skittering heart and how tight her lungs feel, she may as well have sprinted. No, she’d locked eyes with him across the room, registered his shock even through her own numb realization, and waited until he’d started moving. It was only when she’d lost sight of him trying to nudge his way through the crowd that she’d excused herself and started shoving past in the opposite direction, which means she’s now trapped between the freedom of the back exit and the sound of applause that ripples around the corner, from the main room.

Her back pressed against the cool wall, she breathes into the enclosure of her hands, tilts her head down to rub her eyes.

This is absurd. Humiliating. Downright _maddening_.

He doesn’t deserve a place in her life, not anymore – so why is it always so difficult to cut him away?

“Emma?”

She jumps.

It isn’t him.

“Killian?”

Silhouetted in the dim bar light, it’s difficult to make him out until he steps into the hallway. She isn’t sure whether it’s more embarrassing to attribute the leaden feel of her tongue to her current state of mind, or to the fact that he’s dressed to the nines (maybe she’s a little biased; their leather jackets do match) and doesn’t even have the courtesy of looking worse up close.

“What are you doing back here?” He’s slung his guitar around to his back so that it hangs upside-down, but it feels ridiculous that she should want it between them instead, like some sort of shield.

His unwelcome question slices an even worse realization into the fog of her thoughts. She grimaces. “I missed the end of your show.”

“For all the trouble you went through to find me,” he says, a hint of a sympathetic smile on his lips, “I can’t imagine it wasn’t for good reason.” He glances somewhere behind her as he nears. “Unless the call of nature was just too compelling?”

“What?” She follows his gaze to the set of worn wooden doors set into the back of the hallway, but then only rolls her eyes, even though she’d used that same excuse. “No. What are _you_ doing here?”

He taps the guitar behind him. “This one needs safekeeping before I can start to brave the pandemonium out there.”

It’s only barely an exaggeration, and if just to mask the misplaced pride that flickers through her, she makes a point of reminding him: “No screaming fangirls.”

“Not yet.”

“You were really good.” It’s an admission she would have otherwise made, but it feels cheap with her attempt at diversion when she says it now. “I think David has a new crush.”

His handsome grin turns crookedly contagious. “Is that right?”

“When your posse gets here, he’ll probably join them.”

“And what about you?” he asks.

She snorts even as she feels her mouth twitch. “In your dreams.”

“Perhaps,” he says lightly, “of a very specific sort.” He’s stepped close enough that she can see the rouge that colors his the pale skin of his cheekbones, undoubtedly the mark of performance adrenaline. It makes him look almost boyish in his vibrancy, his eyes bright, so blue she knows she’ll have trouble looking away.

“I don’t want to know about you and your harem fantasies,” she tells him with a sternness that’s probably completely transparent.

“There’s no harem,” he assures her. “It’s only—”

“Oh— _shit_!”

She grasps his shoulders, hauls him to the side between where she sinks into the wall, as if she might disappear into it, and the length of the hallway leading back into the bar.

Her mind shutters, and her thoughts skid to a painful halt but for the awareness of her heart, vaulted into a violent, uneven overdrive, the breath of her abandoned words snagged halfway up her throat like it’s suddenly burst into shards.

Had he seen her?

“Swan?” Killian asks, bewildered. “What—”

She shushes him sharply, instinctively. He’s tall enough that he might block her from view, and that guitar on his back is certainly helping, but—

“What are you—?” He makes to twist a glimpse over his shoulder, so, before she can think twice, she grabs him.

By the face.

His skin is smooth, warm beneath her touch.

“Don’t move,” she hisses under her breath.

He blinks at her for a good moment before he seems to get a handle on himself. “Swan,” he whispers fiercely. “What in blazes is going on?”

The words burn as they leave her mouth: “Neal’s here.”

_God_ , of all the fucking _bullshit_ timing. She knows she’s put Killian in an awkward position, but she’s frozen, still afraid he’ll turn around if she lets go.

Worse, she might risk a peek, too.

She sucks in a steadying breath, but it shudders in her lungs and tastes distinctly like clean sweat and salt and a spice she can’t name. She can’t think. She had her chance to escape, but now she’s resorting to using a human shield and hoping Neal hadn’t turned in time to spot her wrestle Killian in place. Hoping he won’t walk down the hallway.

Hoping Killian can’t hear the way the blood is pounding beneath her skin like a frantic, pitiful wreck.

She wouldn’t doubt it if he could feel it, honestly. There’s a scar on his cheek she never noticed before, just above the tip of her thumb, and the pads of her palms prickle with the scratch of his beard. She should let go.

She needs to let go.

It’s only because he’s so close, because she’s watching him so closely that she can tell when something shifts behind his eyes. The change is nearly imperceptible, but even as his lips press together into a thin line, as if he’s hiking up his chin, his gaze turns into something more subdued, a more fervent blue.

She doesn’t have to ask to know that he understands.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice low, reassuring.

_She needs to let go_.

She nods.

He takes that last step forward, backing her against the wall – it’s nowhere near forceful, but she feels the breath drawn out of her lungs anyway, as if tugged by a string – and reaches into the space behind her head. The hair from her ponytail falls in waves around her shoulders as he pulls the elastic away.

Gathering her curls between his fingers, he presses his hands to her cheeks, his forehead to hers. Her own hands slip from his face. On reflex, her eyes slide shut and she forces a quick inhale, but he doesn’t move further. He simply hovers there, still as a statue.

An involuntary shiver darts down her spine, zipping the heat of his touch down her neck, down, down, to where the small of her back presses against the wall.

“What are you doing?” she manages at last. She should be speaking quietly anyway, but right now, her voice sounds but small.

“Making an uncomfortable scene,” he murmurs. His broad palms curve against her skin, gently dragging her hair along with them, and she realizes, belatedly, that he’s trying to hide her face from view. Meanwhile, the only place her hands can fall naturally is on his shoulders, along the crook of his neck above his collar.

She swears she can feel his pulse fluttering beneath her fingers, too.

“The scene of the musician who left the stage to canoodle with a fan?” she asks. She’d think it a resourceful distraction – who likes looking at PDAs directly, after all? – if only a number of other ways to describe the situation didn’t come to mind first. _A bad idea_ , she curses faintly. _The best idea he’s ever had_. “I thought you weren’t interested in an adoring harem.”

“I’m not,” he says. There’s a long pause, during which she takes the chance to swallow the lump in her throat. She’s afraid to breathe – afraid if she does, she might involuntarily shift closer into the warmth between her cheek and his palm, and stay there. “Truthfully, love, there’s only one person here whose opinion I care about.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Would it be too obvious if she wrapped her arms around his neck?

“Do you think he’s gone?” She can feel the vibrations of his words, the sweet huff of warmth they make on her tongue. If she pulled him closer, she could feel them everywhere.

And, somehow – she’s not surprised to realize how much she wants to.

“I don’t care.” It’s barely a whisper against his skin, and then it takes but a tilt of her head upwards for her to lean in and kiss him, soft as the push it’d taken to _fall_.

The morning he’d woken up on her couch, she still remembers, he’d looked up at her like she was the sun: brilliant, breathtaking, as though his gravity had shifted very suddenly and thoroughly, for which she was the sole cause and culprit. He’d been hungover and completely disoriented, but she swears her mind has never been clearer right now, and still she _knows_ – nothing but the soft yield of his lips, the rich taste of his muffled sound of surprise, the way he hesitates, stiffening, before his mouth begins to move with careful, deliberate purpose, a smooth slide, a rough bristle of scruff against her skin.

A sigh escapes her – an embarrassing noise of bliss – but it’s lost somewhere between where she ends and he begins as she slips her tongue into his mouth, feels his quiet groan in response. Though she isn’t sure when it’d happened, she realizes belatedly that she’s well and fully backed into the wall from shoulder to hip, trapped against every hard line in his body, and she lets her head fall backward between the gentle grip of his hands, allowing him to deepening the kiss. It doesn’t take very much coaxing for his lips to grow more insistent, a slow plunge out of the realm of her capacity for rational thought.

But even if she can’t think, she does know one thing: this, whatever _this_ is, feels like something sliding into place, a heavy bolt shifting with a perfect, satisfying _click_ into a spot deep in her chest she’d almost forgotten existed. It feels _right_ , and real, and so good she has to grasp the collar of his jacket tighter for fear that it might all disappear in a flash, before she can admit that she wants it to stay.

He breaks away for air much sooner than she thinks should be necessary, regardless of how urgently her lungs protest, as every other part of her body protests for something entirely different. Her eyes squeezed shut, she can still feel his warmth trickling gooseflesh across her skin, like tiny rivulets of static hauling her towards him still, and she refuses to let go even as he feels his breathing slow.

He doesn’t move away either.

Without completely meaning to, her hands wander up his collar, around the back of his neck, to run through the short hair behind his ears. The way every one of her nerve endings seems to have come alight, the simmering glow brewing just under the surface of her skin – it feels a lot like the brimming ache of desire, and, in putting a name to it, she’s ashamed to realize that it’s not as wholly unfamiliar as she’d like to believe.

“I’m getting out of here,” she says quietly. It takes him a moment longer to pull back, and she opens her eyes to watch him stare, his blue gaze dark, dazed, with the remnants of their kiss; he keeps blinking, as if trying to regain focus on her words. Her nose brushes against his. “What are you going to do?”

His exhale is a flutter on her lips. “Emma…” he mutters, hoarse, trailing – but she knows she’s not imagining the way his fingers twitch tighter around her face.

Still, she hesitates. “Do you have to stay?”

“No, but—” he begins, before he seems to cut himself off. “Swan, your friends—”

“I’ll text Mary Margaret,” she assures him, when it seems like he has no intention of speaking in full sentences. “She’ll know.” She’d left them in the trajectory of the reason she’s back here in the first place, after all, and that’s probably more of an explanation than they really need – even if it isn’t the full truth.

(For both David’s sanity and her own, she’ll spare them _those_ details.)

But Killian remains silent, his eyes darting between hers with something she can’t place. When they slowly draw down her face, back to her mouth, she feels her skin prickle down the curve of her back, and she licks her lips out of instinct.

She curls her fingers into his hair, though it isn’t enough for what she forces herself to say.

“Either way, I’m calling a cab.” His mouth twitches, and she wants to lean back in, coax it out of a frown. He wants it, too – that kiss aside, she _knows_ he does – which is the only reason why she doesn’t dread his response, for all her quivering heart seems to disagree. “I’m not going back out there.”

She can’t find a hint of shame in admitting it, either. The lopsided rhythm that floods her pulse is born, instead, from quiet anticipation, one that leaps at the sight of his jaw clenched as tight as the look in his eyes. She doesn’t know what to make of it, except for the hot breath that he exhales, torn between desperation and frustration – but whatever he’s thinking, there’s nothing she can do but wait, wanting, trying to contain the thought of how that muscle in his cheek might feel under her fingers in a very different set of circumstances, with a very different kind of tension running through every inch of his body.

He watches her for a long, agonizing moment, and then, with barely a second of warning, he’s surging forward across that tiny space between them, crushing his lips to hers in a rough kiss that _sears_.

She might be chagrined at how quickly her nerves dissolve into relieved gratification, but, as it is, she has better things on her mind – things that only hitch higher into the realm of pure distraction when he pulls away and she makes out the look on his face, darker than ever.

“We both know your apartment is within walking distance from here,” he says, quietly. “It’d be remiss of me not to make sure you made it back safe.” The rough edge to his tone makes it sound like it might be the worst sin in the world, but she doesn’t care. She smiles, and she doesn’t even bother checking if anyone’s looking as she takes his hand and leads him backward, towards the door at the rear of The Jolly Roger.

Towards home.

Towards something more.


	9. Chapter 9

The one door in her apartment he hasn’t opened he knows, logically, must belong to her bedroom.

Official confirmation of that fact, however, is a little dubious, considering the way she pulls him back down to kiss her again before he manages more than a glimpse.

He tastes the curve of her smile as she tugs him backward, just as sweet as the moment she’d first leaned in at the bar, and it’s that, more than anything, that shuts down his thoughts – more than the subtle fog of her perfume, the feel of her bare waist under her shirt. He might be glad for it, except he knows, somewhere deep down, even as his jacket hits the floor, that he shouldn’t be.

Because forcing those thoughts to the forefront of his mind had taken _everything_ on the hurried, stumbling walk from The Jolly Roger. It’d been made worse by how she hadn’t let go of his hand the entire time, until she had to dig the building card and her keys from her pocket, and even then, the electricity that hummed just under his skin kept him rooted by her side, struggling to remember why he should have been leaving.

He should be leaving. But she’d kissed him through her front door, and he’s long since forgotten how to do anything but stay.

His hands move of their own accord, divesting her of her own jacket and then slipping back underneath her clothes. She’s nothing but smooth temptation under his palms, and he’s surprised to find that he has just enough mental capacity left to register her huff of breath against his lips, to wonder just how ticklish she really is. But then she’s pulling him down, down, down, and his priority becomes tugging her shirt over her head before it becomes any more difficult, what with the tangle of limbs that seems to be happening in the space between them.

He wishes he had the time to wait, to slow, to admire all of that lovely pale skin suddenly on display – except the fierce haul of desire drags him forward, toppling head-over-heels, something he knows all too well. His head ducks into the curve of her neck so he can taste her there, too, taste the way she hums and arches against him, fingers wound so tightly into his hair he thinks it might hurt if he could feel anything but how much he wants this.

(He wants _her_ , and it almost makes him stop – the understanding that that might be something different entirely.)

“Killian.” Her whisper pricks goosebumps over his shoulders, across his neck, and all the way down his spine. Every inch of him burns from it, from her. The one arm he’s braced beside her head, next to where he knows the waves of her hair would be spilling over her pillows if he looked, suddenly doesn’t seem like enough support when she nudges his lips back to hers, especially when the salt of her skin becomes a sweet sigh of satisfaction on his tongue. He holds her in place with his free hand, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek, even though he doesn’t think she’s going anywhere. Not anymore.

“I can’t believe it took you this long to let me hear you play,” she murmurs against his mouth. Her tiny grin he feels more than sees makes it all too clear what his response should be: _Had I known this would happen, I’d have rushed for my guitar the moment we met_. But he can’t lie to her, and no matter how much he wants to draw that bewitching laugh from her throat, he’s afraid even that might not be enough to distract him, if he says it aloud, from all the reasons it isn’t true – from all the reason _this_ can’t be true.

So he grunts out an indistinct answer, leaning back down again before the words can spill from his lips. He feels the warmth of her knee at his hip, the way her hands slip down from the back of his neck to cup his jaw as the kiss begins to grow languid, savoring. It’s wonderful, and terrible, and it nearly makes him lose his mind – which is why there’s no way to express his relief when her fingers curve lower still, hooking into the collar of his shirt. She plucks at it with gentle urgency, and that’s all the persuasion he needs to pull back, reach over his head to grasp at the fabric, and yank it right off.

Her small hands are sliding up his chest before he even has the chance to free his arms and discard the offending article of clothing, soft and cool against his heated skin, and while that does force him to suck in a quick, steadying breath, it isn’t the reason why he freezes, halfway to finding her mouth again.

It isn’t the sight of her, either, which he registers in the split second after he does – though, had he taken the time to properly behold her earlier, he knows it would have stopped him in his tracks just as easily: all pink flush and parted lips, darkened green eyes fuller and heavier than the night of the room around them. Her hair really is a beautifully tangled mess, strewn across the stack of her pillows knocked askew – which only makes the thick coil of hunger clench tighter in his groin, but he barely feels it.

In the end, the only thing that jolts his senses back to reality is the delicate tug of the chain around his neck, the ring at the end freed to land in a heap of silver on her skin. His mind slows to a sluggish, pounding halt, until, but for the sound of the rough breath he inhales, that ring between them is all he can process. He really had told her the truth, that he hadn’t realized he’d forgotten the weight of it until it was already gone – but it all comes barreling back in full force now. Unspeakably lovely, where it sits barely covering a scar she bears just over her breast, it looks far too at home for the first time he’s seen it against her skin, far too much like it simply _belongs_. He forces his eyes higher, back to her face, and the look with which she snares him there, her tentative smile at the way he knows he’s been staring, spears through him like a bolt of lightning.

It’s that smile, and the ring, and the feeling of _everything_ – being with her, here, at last – that pushes him over the edge.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

And then he does the one thing he thought he’d never do when it came down to Emma Swan.

He pulls away.

* * *

The warmth of him disappears from her skin before she’s even started to process his words.

She feels his ring skitter across her chest, in time with her heartbeat, as he drags himself up, but that’s not the reason why the heat that prickles down her spine suddenly feels cold. He sits up, rubs his hands over his face with his eyes squeezed tight, and though the heavy throb of arousal pulses through her still, she knows without thinking that something’s very wrong.

“Hey.” The cool air of the room is a starkly unwelcome difference compared to only moments before, but he seems forced away by the mere action of her heaving herself up to join him, shifting over to the edge of the bed to swing his feet down. The muscles in his bare back roll as he braces his elbows over his knees; she’s suddenly reminded of a very similar sight, except basked in the rays of early morning and sprawled out on her couch, though her unintentionally wandering eyes are not why she licks her lips. “You okay?”

He exhales, long and slow, but doesn’t look up. It takes him far too long to answer. “I’m sorry, love,” he says again, which, of course, doesn’t explain anything at all.

“Killian,” she says carefully. She leans in, just enough, though she almost pulls back at how he tenses at the light touch of her fingers on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

It’s ridiculously exasperating, the way he refuses to meet her gaze, no matter how she tries to catch his eye. His expression is one of silent frustration, the same kind he’d worn back at The Jolly Roger before he’d kissed her, fierce and hungry, and she’s surprised by how quickly the sight of it rekindles the burn low in her belly, turning with apprehension as it is.

But he only shakes his head. “I can’t—” The pale skin of his throat works down a swallow, one she can see even in the dim light. “Swan, I can’t— I’m so sorry. I can’t do this.”

Her heart jerks to a skidding halt, stills, then restarts in an uneasy double gait. “What…” She hesitates. “What are you trying…?”

When he finally looks at her, long after her words have trailed off, she hasn’t a clue to what to make of his face, his lips pressed together in a determined line. His words, too, are nothing short of disconcerting when he speaks.

“Why didn’t you stay at The Jolly?”

She blinks. “What?”

“At the bar,” he clarifies, “when Neal showed up.” That’s the absolute last name she’d want to hear while she’s half-naked and in bed, but he presses on, undeterred. “You could have stayed. Confronted him. Why didn’t you?”

“What are you—” She huffs, more confused than ever. “What are you talking about? Why does that matter?”

“Emma, love,” he says, almost gently. “I’ve known, almost from the moment I met you, how stubborn you are when it comes to confrontation. And yet, you hid, and you ran. Why?”

The bluntness of his words sears shame right through her chest, swelling above even the brief flash of pride at what she thinks should be a compliment. She shakes her head, in mingled irritation and disbelief. “Why does it matter?” she repeats.

“Humor me.” Honestly, she’s in no mood.

“He isn’t a part of my life anymore,” she tells him firmly, trying to keep the testy edge from her tone. “Why should I have wasted my time?”

He throws her a small, pitying smile. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

Against the bedsheets, the fingers of her left hand curl into a fist, and she digs her nails into her palm to keep from feeling anything else. Unfortunately, the pain of it also distracts her from how he moves, in response to her silence, sliding off the bed with a creak of the springs – until he’s already standing by the time she looks up. The fire claws up her throat, fierce, a bitter jolt with the way her temper sparks.

“That isn’t your call to make,” she snaps. She clambers to her feet after him, but he only spares her a glance over his shoulder as he bends to retrieve his discarded shirt. “When the hell did you become an expert on my relationships?”

_Before I could tell him a thing_ , is her immediate instinct, but his answer is a pause, a tilt of his head. “I’m not.” Bunching his shirt between his hands, he turns to face her fully, not looking the least bit contrite. “Why don’t you enlighten me, then?”

She almost admires his nerve. Almost. She forces herself to spit her answer before she loses her own.

“I loved him, and he left.” Her arms cross over her chest, stiff and angry. “What more is there to say?”

For a long time, he doesn’t speak. He only stands there, the night doing nothing to mask how the bright blue of his eyes flickers between hers, and she thinks it might just be because he’s just as exposed as she is that she can spot the precise moment when his muscles begin to tense, his shoulders bunching, his expression tightening as he seems to come to some sort of decision.

“I never got to say goodbye,” he says. It takes her a second to realize what he’s talking about, longer than the time her heart needs to plunge into the pit of her stomach. “Milah left in the middle of the night. She spared me but a note on the bedside table – that, along with the world’s most sentimental paperweight.” His hand goes to the chain around his neck, to the ring that hangs here, but he continues before she can dwell on it, or on the sick feeling that curdles its way through her in understanding. “All I could discern from it was that I wasn’t enough. I’ll never know why.”

He takes a deep breath that seems to be the steadying force he needs, though, the air stuck in her throat as it is, she can’t manage to find that same reprieve. She watches as he turns the ring over between his fingers once.

“There’s always more to say, love,” he tells her, at last. “The only question is: how much trust do you need to have to say it?”

“I trust you.” The words are out of her mouth before she can help it, but, true as they are, she can’t bring herself to feel chagrined.

He only smiles, that same terribly sad smile that pierces her more forcefully than the most accurate arrow. “I know,” he says, and then shakes his head. “I think it’s yourself you’re afraid to trust.”

Her mind blanks. There are so many ways to take that.

_Afraid to trust yourself to move on._

_Afraid to trust yourself to be happy_.

_Afraid to trust yourself to love, again, after everything_.

But she can’t think about any of them right now. The only thing she can process is the feeling of ice in her veins, a bleak awareness that the only reason she does trust him, after all, is because he’d never lie to her. He’d _never_ lie.

(He’s not lying.)

(She’s always been much better with lies than the truth.)

She swallows, tries to breathe, but nothing comes out. He doesn’t appear very surprised – just apologetic, as if he’s loathe to have put her in distress, though not to have said it in the first place.

“I really am sorry, Emma.” The deep rumble of his voice, she knows, might be soothing if she wasn’t wound up so tight, arms still crossed over her chest, as if to hold herself together. He’s still for the space of one, long breath, and then he shifts forward, towards her, angling his head to the side as if to—

Without meaning to, she recoils.

He draws back, lips pressed together. That look of hurt understanding on his face – it scorches into her memory in a way she knows will haunt her every thought, especially when he lingers for longer than he needs to. But then he’s pulling his shirt over his head, turning to grab his abandoned leather jacket from the floor, and making his way to the door in one smooth motion. She hears the _thud_ of his guitar in the living room, then a short silence before the heavier _thud_ of the front door.

And, all the while, she can only stand there, cold, reeling, and alone in the dark.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! :)

Just like that, he’s gone.

It shouldn’t surprise her, really, how thoroughly he’s disappeared: even before, he was just her neighbor’s friend, after all, and she can count the number of chance encounters she’s had with him in one hand. Most of the times she’s run into him, she realizes now (now that it’s too late) haven’t been products of circumstance, but instead of deliberate intent.

They’d all been results of effort on his part, too, save for her showing up at The Jolly Roger – and look where that got her.

She almost expects to hear a knock on her front door or at her window at any given moment, to pull it open only to be snared by his suspiciously innocent smile.

But it never comes.

 _I think it’s yourself you’re afraid to trust_.

Her skin still crawls with the ghost of his words. Except, while she knows her immediate reaction that night should have spoken for itself, while she refuses to believe he would lie to her – the more she turns it over and over in her mind, the more she decides that her response, instead, should have been pure indignance.

Because she’d been right to confront him: he _doesn’t_ know anything about her relationship with Neal. He doesn’t know the hell she went through to put herself back together, to keep the scars she’d born, after years and years of that same hell, from tearing her apart all over again. He doesn’t know how firmly she’d steeled herself, how she’d forced her life forward even when it seemed stuck in the past, in that same never-ending loop she’s had on replay since the Swans decided they couldn’t keep her.

(She was supposed to be done with all of that the second she turned eighteen, once she could finally grasp her heart with both hands and refuse to let it be passed around ever again.)

(But he does know. And it kills her that she didn’t have to tell him at all.)

Either way, if she hadn’t raised herself on trust – internal trust and nothing else, at that – she wouldn’t have been able to make it through any of it, which the only thing she can cling to, the only thing she can use to tell herself that he was wrong.

She doesn’t want to think about how the only reason she needs to do that is because she doesn’t know what the hell to do if he was right.

So there isn’t anything to do about it at all, honestly – especially since, well, he’s gone. Though not without leaving her far too many mementos of that night for what little had actually happened – a faded mark on her neck that still tingles with the scratch of his scruff days later, the taste of his hunger and desperation on her tongue, his soft groan against her lips replaying itself over and over in her mind. But for all that she’s plagued by the memories of his warmth in her bed, and the pang of white-hot craving that inevitably follows, what sticks with her the most, as she’d feared, is the hollow look on his face right before he’d left. It was worse than the pain he’d had to endure to relive his ghosts, but only barely, and the spot on her cheek where he’d have kissed her stings with the loss of his goodbye.

 _Fuck_. She doesn’t know how the hell it’d happened, but some way, somehow – she misses him. She hadn’t even had the chance to have him, not even as a constant presence, but she misses knowing he might be there, on the other side of that door, always ready to say exactly what she needs to hear.

( _Double fuck_.)

It’s the refusal to dwell on that thought finally that pushes her off of her couch and towards that same door, the one she’s been staring at for the better part of the afternoon, an entire week after he’d walked through it without looking back. She doesn’t realize where her bare feet are taking her until she’s already halfway to the apartment down the hall, and with that, she also realizes that her next-door neighbor might have been in a perfect position to witness exactly what had transpired in this hallway last weekend, and that she’d been a little too wrapped up in it herself to check for bystander trauma at the time.

Before she can blush, before she can overthink it, she forces her hand upward to knock.

A short moment of muffled shuffling later, the door swings open, heralding none other than Robin’s surprised face.

(She shouldn’t have expected anything else, but disappointment still flickers through her all the same.)

“Hey, Emma.” His confusion only takes a split second longer than usual to dissolve into a smile, but she appreciates the warmth anyway: for more reasons than one, she’s been in no mood for the questions and confrontation Mary Margaret and Ruby would have wrought had she not kept her distance, and though she appreciates them respecting her plea for space under the circumstances (even if she feels a tad guilty they’re under the wrong impression, given what happened at the bar), that also means she’s been sorely deprived of friendly human contact for longer than she’d care to admit. In the doorway, Robin cocks his head. “How can I help you?”

“Er.” Well, no going back now, no matter how silly this attempt suddenly seems. “Is Killian around?”

She can almost pinpoint exactly when the pieces click together in Robin’s head, as though she’s just confirmed his suspicions; she’s always been well-tuned to pity, even when it looks a lot like sympathy, after all. “No, I…” he presses his lips together. “I haven’t seen him. Sorry.” No surprises there, either. But she had to try. He continues, slowly: “Is something going on?”

 _No_. It’s the truth, if only because he’d so staunchly decided it for the both of them, and yet it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. She holds Robin’s gaze, expectant but concerned, but there’s no proper response she can give him. So, instead, she shakes her head and heaves him a short sigh from a half-smile she doesn’t feel, one she suspects will be telling enough.

“Sorry to bother you.” But just as she turns to leave, he calls after her.

“You don’t want to know where he is?”

She supposes he knows as well as she does that she has no shame in resorting to that tactic. The thought of tracking Killian down now, though, is far removed from the triumphant satisfaction she’d only just celebrated what feels like yesterday. She hasn’t a clue what she’d even say to him.

“Uh, no,” she says, one foot out the metaphorical door even as she faces him again. “That’s all right. Thanks though.”

Her parting smile feels just as forced as her previous one, but something in Robin’s expression catches her off-guard. His brows furrowed, he seems less like he’s analyzing her for answers than trying to figure out his own, and that’s the only reason she hesitates just long enough for him to speak again.

“Whatever’s happened between the two of you,” he says carefully, and then stops, restarts in a different direction. “I won’t ask, and I won’t get in the way, but you have to know how he feels about you, Emma. You know it, don’t you?

Guilt twists in her gut like a hot knife. “I know. I swear I didn’t—” She sounds too defensive, even from just that. “Look, Robin, I’m sorry. I know he hasn’t been around, and I know you’re nowhere dense enough not to have guessed at why, but—”

“Emma, I’m not looking for an apology from you,” he interrupts her quickly, with a shake of his head, and the look on his face is so genuinely insistent that she just has to believe it. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

Of course she’s known. But that isn’t the problem. “Thanks, Robin,” she tells him anyway, with as much appreciation as she can muster. “I’ll, uh. I’ll keep that in mind.”

That doesn’t quite seem to be the end of it, though, given how his serious gaze still pins her in place – still thoughtful, still considering. He shuffles between his feet before he speaks, earnestly. “He’s better for having met you, you know.”

His words ring with a strange kind of truth, one she can be sure holds at least for one of them, though also one that feels misplaced for how unexpected that declaration is. “Um. I… sorry?”

“I heard about that morning,” Robin says, cocking his head with a trace of strange amusement. “That morning, when you two met. He broke into your apartment, didn’t he?”

Still unsure where he’s going with this, she can only frown. It’s a little bizarre to think of Killian as the stranger he once was. “Yeah,” she begins slowly, but he continues before she gets the chance to herself.

“He was probably still a little pissed, and definitely more than a little hungover. Don’t you wonder why that hasn’t happened since then?”

“I didn’t think he made a habit of breaking into strangers’ apartments.”

“No, not that,” Robin snorts. “I meant – he used to drink himself into a coma, almost every weekend we didn’t have plans. After work, he’d pack up and go to a different bar, and he’d get straight-up pissed to try to drown everything out.” He doesn’t have to say it; she knows, even with his considerate discretion, exactly what he’s talking about. The rawness in Killian’s expression whenever his gaze had fallen on his mother’s ring was proof enough. “He hasn’t done any of that, though,” Robin goes on, “not since the morning he met you.”

“I… I guess he learned his lesson about safe drinking habits,” Emma suggests, though she hates trying to make light of something that makes her ache so.

“Maybe. I actually thought he might have been trying to distract himself with winning you over,” he says, and it sound vaguely like an apology, to his credit, “but something was different about him from that very first morning.” She might be more miffed at that first part, but she’s too wrapped up in his words to mind very much (especially, of course, when she already knows the truth of the matter herself). He seems to have trouble finding the right words to elaborate on the second. “He was… lighter, I suppose. More like his old self. I think meeting you reminded him of the person he used to be.”

That easy rhythm she’s known with him from the very start – even when it’s stumbled, it’s beat on between them, stronger than ever, and the loss of it still throbs within her now. “Why are you telling me this?”

Robin’s smile is one of careful sympathy. “I think the only reason that happened,” he says, “is because the two of you are so alike, even more than you could have known back then. Whatever you’re feeling right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s feeling the same way.”

 _Doubtful_ , she thinks, on pure instinct. After all, she wasn’t the one who walked away, and on a bullshit premise, at that. But Robin’s reminder ripples through her again, that they’d only met in the first place because Killian was trying to drink away his past – that he’s always been good at running, at trying to leave things behind. He could probably give her a run for her money for it, in fact, if she gave him the chance. From whatever had happened with his father to make his brother his only escape. From the deaths of his mother and that brother she knows he’d have loved so well. From Milah.

 _From Milah_.

He’s still running, she realizes with a dull start, one that pangs hot in her chest and spreads through her like the flicker of a candle – but it isn’t from her. Maybe they really are too alike.

“Robin, I, uh—” She blinks to regain her focus, Robin’s patient face blurring back into view. “Listen, thanks for this. I have to run, but I really appreciate it.”

“Wait, what?” The startled pitch to his voice reaches her even as she turns away. “Where are you— wait,” he says quickly. “Are you going to try to find him?”

“I will,” she says, sending him a reassuring nod over her shoulder. “There’s just something I have to do first.”

She’s going to need to come back and find Robin again, at some point, but right now, she needs to put one foot in front of the other before she loses her nerve. She needs to remember all the reasons she has to move forward ( _forward, instead of backward_ ), why she wants to more than she can remember ever feeling, no matter how difficult it might be to steel her heart and simply get it done.

She needs to grit her teeth and fight for it. That’s the only way she’s ever gotten the chance for anything in her life, after all.

She needs to pick up the phone and call Ruby.

* * *

He’s a right idiot, for more reasons than one.

It’s a thought that’s been gnawing at the back of his mind for the past week, but right now, trudging up the five flights of stairs to his apartment with but a single grocery bag to show for his efforts, he feels it more than ever.

Yes, he really did bundle up, brace himself for the cold, and walk all the way to the corner store for a box of hot chocolate mix. Yes, he’d only bought it to see if it would taste as good without the duckling mug, without a certain blonde neighbor (of sorts) sitting across from him on a hard wooden floor. Yes, that’s the only way he could finally quell the thoughts plaguing his every breath since he left – by flat out giving in to them.

(Yes, he might have been able to save himself three flights of stairs had he not left at all, and he might not have been so resigned to drinking hot chocolate alone, either, if he’d stayed. But he hadn’t, and even if it was the right thing to do, it still sits at the top of the list of reasons why he’s a _right, bloody, ridiculous idiot_.)

If he were a weaker man, he’d have given in to _her_. He’d wanted to, more than anything – especially when the hurt on her face had become nearly too much to bear, when he could feel the sting of betrayal with which he’d left her as poignantly as if she’d stuck him with it herself. He knows he’s not the first person to walk away from her, and there’s no way to express how much he wishes he hadn’t had to be the latest on that list.

And yet, he’d gone and done it anyway.

No matter how many times it makes sense in his head, he has to wonder if he’d be regretting it quite as much if it really was the right decision after all. If he’d done it for the right reasons, or if he’d only ruined everything on an assumption that he’d known her better than she knew herself, that being with her then should have been _everything_ , because it should have felt so much more right than it had.

Guilt, pure and simple. That what is was, and that’s what it is, and he doesn’t know how to rid himself of it.

And now, an entire week later, it’s built into a weariness at all of his doubts and sentiment and his stupid, aching chest, one that keeps his eyes locked on the ground as he shuffles though all of his tasks like a mindless, heartsick buffoon.

That’s probably why he almost misses the obstruction blocking the top step of the stairway until it lurches into his field of view.

His head snaps up.

“Hey—”

“Killian.” He very nearly forgets to exhale the rest of that held breath, because, in all of her windswept glory, who else but Emma herself should make stumbling to her feet look like an act of pure grace?

Granted, he might be a bit biased: with all the resolve he’s put into staying away from Robin’s, and in effect, away from her these past few days, she’s a much more welcome sight than his bewildered mind can process. But, to be fair, he’d never, not once, imagined he’d ever see her anywhere near his apartment building, much less brushing the dirt off the back of her jeans from where she’d been seemingly camped out on the floor to his landing.

Somehow, her place had become the base for her, for them, in his mind.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, anxiously, and he realizes he’s been standing there with his foot raised and his mouth (likely) agape for far too long. “I… I know I shouldn’t have just shown up like this, but Robin gave me your address, and I just had to—” Her words stumble over one another, like white water over rocks. “I mean, I can come back another time, if you’re busy. But I ran all the way over here, so. You don’t have to, but I thought….”

He’s not sure whether or not she’s supposed to be making sense, which he doesn’t think should be attributed to any lack of oxygen on her part for her supposedly hurried commute. It does almost prick a spark of amusement through him, though – how she seems torn between demanding an audience with him and shying away – except he should probably say something, anything, first, before he starts acting in a way that’s liable to get him punched.

“Have you… You haven’t been waiting too long out here, have you?” It’s the first thought that makes it from his brain to his mouth, though it nearly makes him want to put his foot in it straightaway. He’d only been gone for the twenty minutes it’d taken to get to the store and back (a pathetic single-objective mission, of course), but he’s not too fond of the idea of her camped out in this drafty hallway for any length of time, either.

Sure enough, she shakes her head, and then pauses.

“Can I, er…” She gestures over her shoulder, towards the door to 611 on the other side of the hallway.

He grimaces the moment her meaning becomes clear, forcing the words from his mouth before he can think twice of it. “Swan, I don’t think— that might not be the best idea.” Neither is the prospect of having any kind of conversation with her out here, in full view of all his neighbors, but, damn it, he doesn’t know if he could bear having her in his apartment, so close, when he knows nothing she might say to him now will change his mind.

He’d meant it: she’d never be able to stop protecting her heart when she kept it lodged in the past, locked up even from herself, as she did.

“I went to see Neal,” she says firmly.

He freezes. “What?”

“I tracked him down. I talked to him, just now, before I came here.” Her sigh seems to be one of impatience, as though she wishes she didn’t have to spell it out for him quite so thoroughly. He’s getting there, he thinks, but the words are so unexpected it’s just taking him longer than it should. “Listen, can I just… come in for a minute?”

He swallows thickly; he should probably have gotten used to her waylaying everything he’d known by now. In the end, there’s nothing he can say but a careful, hesitant, “All right.”

It’s bizarre, walking past her to unlock his door – he wonders if it’s just because she’s here at all or if it’s because, as he pushes it open and nods her inside first, he thinks this might be how she feels every time she’s on the other side of hers. Every time he surprises her, and every time she lets him in (except for, of course, that first morning). This time, he suspects, might be a bit different, because once his initial shock passes, all it takes is the slightest whiff of her perfume as she brushes past him for everything he’s been trying to suppress, to forget, to come back in full force, and he doesn’t think she’s rendered momentarily paralyzed with a jolt of longing whenever he crosses her threshold.

That night had almost been his undoing, in too many ways.

(And perhaps he should be ashamed for it, how easily but memory of her skin and the taste of her kiss could make him crumble – but it has, and it does.)

She’s still hovering by his front door when he finishes with locking it and turning to face her, dropping the grocery bag to the floor, though she seems preoccupied with glancing around at the tiny expanse of what she can see. Which isn’t really a lot, but it makes up most of his apartment all the same: the utilitarian kitchen, the single couch and armchair set adorning the room beyond. Had he known she was coming, he might have taken the time to tidy up a bit (he’s been a little distracted of late, after all, which hasn’t exactly lent productivity to menial things like laundry), but he figures he’d never really given her a heads-up on his visits either, so it’s only fair.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have much time to dwell on her opinions of his place at all when she finally spins on her heel, neglecting to have even removed her coat, her expression alight with adamance.

“I thought about what you said,” she tells him, without preamble. “About Neal still being a part of my life, no matter how much I told myself he wasn’t.”

It’s awful hearing his own words repeated back to him, in her voice, but he still stands by it. At least now, though, her declaration from before makes a lot more sense. “So you went to confront him?” He hesitates, and even through his admiration of her bravery, concern flickers through him like the smoldering crackle of ashes come back to life. “Swan, are you all right?”

She presses her lips together, seems to draw herself up to her full height. “That might not be the last time I see him, whether I want to or not. He’s going to be around for a while, and there’s nothing I can do about that, but it doesn’t matter.” She heaves a long, heavy breath. “He left so suddenly, there were a lot of things I never got to say. A lot of things I didn’t even realize I wanted to say until now, looking back.” A guilty smile plays at the edges of her lips. “I probably should have punched him then.”

His disbelieving snort, almost a bark of a laugh, is harder than it should be to contain, given the circumstances. “Did you, just now?”

“No,” she admits with a hint of regret. But then she shakes her head, as if to clear it, and continues on with dogged determination. “We just talked. He isn’t sorry for what he did, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised – he had his reasons, selfish as they were. But everyone always has their reasons. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t deserve more.”

He gets the feeling she’s not just talking about Neal. “Emma, love,” he says slowly. “What happened? How on earth could… for you, as tenacious as you are…” There’s no proper way for him to outright ask it, which is why he’s grateful when she seems to understand his message loud and clear.

(He’s never outright asked anything of her, until now, but perhaps this is the most important question he ever could.)

Her green eyes glittering with a muted fierceness, she still seems to need a moment to gather her response. “He let me hope.” She says it staunchly, like a stubborn fact she knows she can’t change. “I thought I was over that – I thought I’d forgotten how, to trust someone so wholeheartedly with the confidence that they’d never leave. But I guess I spent so long not remembering what hope felt like, after all those years in the system, I didn’t realize it’d crept up on me until it’d already made a home for itself where it didn’t belong.”

He feels his jaw clench without thinking it. “What Neal did,” he tells her, with deliberate emphasis, “and how you feel about it, even now – it’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the way I do.” She spares him a half-hearted shrug, and he knows, as much as he hates to admit it, that it’s true. “You were right. I did have unfinished business with Neal, even if it was just setting the record straight and finally knowing, after all this time, that he doesn’t regret it, not even after I told him what I just told you. That he wasn’t worth the hope I gave him in the first place.” His heart squeezes tight in his chest, and not for her concession of his words from earlier. For that concession, though, she doesn’t look the least bit ready to back down, either, her pink mouth still set in a determined line across her face, so all he can do is wait until she finally speaks again.

“You were right about how I felt,” she repeats. “But you were wrong about something else.” Her gaze seems to pin him to the spot. “Just because it’s hard to move forward doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“Wh…” He struggles to piece together her words. “But Swan, you just said—”

“I know what I said,” she interrupts him in a rush, “but that’s not the same thing. I might not have been able to carve Neal out of my life. Maybe I never will, and I’ll carry around those scars forever. But they don’t need to vanish like they never existed before they start to heal. The things that hurt you – they don’t have to stop hurting before you can start to move on.” She lets out an exhale, one that he can feel trembling in his bones even though he’s nowhere near enough to capture it on his skin. “I know I can put the past behind me, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it alone. That doesn’t mean you have to do it alone, either.”

He blinks. “What?”

In three long strides, she’s before him, a hand going up to rest on his chest. Her warmth melts through the fabric of his coat, somehow, and every inch of him clenches with the desire to feel it without barriers again. “This ring,” she says resolutely, looking up to meet his eyes. “I know you might wear it in memory, but you carry it like it weighs as much as the goddamn world.” Her fingers curl into a fist, and it certainly feels like he’s being twisted up tight in her grasp, the breath lost somewhere between his lungs and his throat. “That weight doesn’t just go away, even if you don’t realize it’s there, you know. Letting someone else help you lift it doesn’t mean you’ve failed, or that it means any less to you than it once did. All it means is that you can take it off and give yourself a moment to remember how to breathe without it around your neck.”

He forces himself to swallow, hot and thick. In the back of his mind, her television screen flashes with an image of a bright smile and a sparkling diamond ring, one he’d had so much trouble separating from the vision in his memories. He remembers, night after night, feeling the strings of his guitar against his fingers and refusing to admit, even if he’d told her otherwise, that the reason he’d kept dodging the prospect of her mixed with his music was because somewhere deep inside – he couldn’t escape it. The guilt of forgetting, even for a moment, what it’d felt like to see that flash of brunette hair in the crowd. The guilt of losing that one sentimental piece he had left, that one reminder of where he’d once lodged his heart so firmly, it was an insult to think he might be able take it back, give it to another, just like that.

That guilt he’s been feeling, the name for it comes to him now: the guilt of letting go.

But, he understands, it’s not letting go and pretending it meant nothing, in the end.

It’s healing.

The inhale he forces down his aching throat doesn’t quite do much for his stability, but he needs it all the same to say it, quietly. “How do you know all this, love?”

She bites her lip, her bright eyes darting between his. “Don’t be mad, but it was Robin. _Don’t_ —” she says in a rush, as the confusion starts to bubble up into vague indignance, “don’t get upset. He didn’t tell me anything, really. All he said, all he did was remind me that… well, I know you better than I should. We’re the same. It didn’t take much to figure it all out after that.”

 _Bloody Robin_. For all of his vocal disapproval, he sure seems to have a different opinion of his relationships – whatever form they may or may not take – when he’s speaking with Emma. “And he told you I’d be here?”

“Is that all right?” Her hand still pressed against his chest, she’s closer than ever, which makes the hesitant quiver of her lashes all the more distracting. “I didn’t know how else to find you.”

“And you ran all the way here from Neal’s?” He can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, despite everything. Or, perhaps, because of everything. She only rolls her eyes. “Why?” he asks.

“I was in a hurry,” she tells him flatly, as though it should be obvious, but she elaborates upon prompting with a quirk of his brow. “I didn’t want to waste any more time.”

 _That doesn’t mean I have to do it alone._ “Any more time before what?” It _is_ obvious; he just needs to hear her say it. Just as it’s obvious that she’s spoken nothing but the truth, that the reason understanding comes to readily to him is because she’d had to come to terms with it, as well. That it probably hadn’t been easy – acceptance never is, he knows – but the one thing that _is_ easy is staying by her side, and maybe that’s enough to pull him through it, to pull both of them through it all, piece by broken piece. That he wants it, if his pounding heart isn’t indication enough, finally, with everything he can possibly muster.

That he’s done wasting time, too.

“You know what,” she mutters. He feels her hand press more firmly into him as she seems to sway in place, her gaze so full with the sentiment she won’t put into words, it threatens to swallow him whole.

Well, that’s good enough. He lets it.

Exhaling the breath he’s held caught in his throat, he dips his head, hovers there for the time it’d take for her to pull away. But she doesn’t, only nudges closer infinitesimally, and waits with extraordinary patience – until, at last, he bridges that last gap and presses his lips to hers once more.

It’s gentle, searching, wrapped in all the things they’ve said like the seal of a promise. Her mouth moves against his with perfect abandon, and her hand on his chest slides up to join its partner around his neck, pulling herself flush against him as the heavy beat of desire between them, reawoken, begins to thrum that familiar pattern, like it’s loathe to have disappeared at all. He savors this kiss, savors her, in all the ways he couldn’t let himself back when she’d first kissed him at The Jolly Roger, in her apartment, which is the only reason he has even the slightest cause for protest when her lips grow more insistent, a new level of hunger that scarcely allows time for appreciation.

He breaks away just enough, the heady scent of her clouding his senses still, but all that seems to do is prompt her expectant glare.

“I know you said you were done wasting time,” he murmurs, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it, too.”

“Who says I’m not?” Catching him by the collar, she starts to tug him backward, towards the only way out of the kitchen.

“Would you like a tour?” he asks with amused sarcasm. He knows his apartment is small, but the confidence with which she seems to expect to find what she’s looking for (with her eyes closed, no less, if he has anything to say about it) is more endearing than worrying.

She snorts, a sweet breath on his tongue. “Maybe just one of those single-destination trips, for now.”

“For now,” he agrees, and she pulls his mouth back down to cover hers with a grin. Her fingers work at the zipper to his coat, then at shoving it off altogether, all the while shuffling them backward across his kitchen, the heated slide of her lips against his drawing him along at her mercy. It’s all he can do to shift them in the right direction, towards the door to his bedroom, much less keep up in terms of her urgency. He keeps finding himself lost, after all – in the feel of her, her warmth in his arms and her tongue coaxing bliss through his veins – so it doesn’t quite surprise him that, by the time she falls onto his bed, she’s only lost her jacket, while his shirt seems to have found a new home on his floor.

He stops himself from collapsing on top of her, but only just, so it’s from a new vantage point that he can watch her eyes flit down his form, glinting in the bare light of the setting sun through his blinds.

“You know, I’d have thought you’d be much faster at taking off clothes.” He raises an eyebrow at her, but she only shrugs, helping him out by beginning to unzip her boots. “You seemed to have no trouble with getting shirtless while black-out drunk,” she reminds him, “right before passing out on my couch.”

“For your benefit, of course,” he hedges lightly, smirks at the way she seems to have trouble maintaining her scowl. He’d have to be blind to miss the appreciation in her gaze – to have missed it, even back then.

(Like then, too, the moment he remembers, he makes sure to tug the chain of his ring over his head before it can cause any more problems, to tuck it away into his pocket for safe-keeping as a force of habit. It’s lighter than it’s ever been, cupped in his palm, and he doesn’t miss the flash of emotion that crosses her face at the sight, either – if just for a split second, mingled understanding and subdued pride.)

“Come on,” she snorts. She kicks off her boots and shuffles up his bed, and he has no choice but to do the same, to join her in record time. He tucks her into his side, nudging her lips back to his with his thumb fitted against her chin, and the curve of her leg slides between his knees, her hand beginning to wander up his chest. It has to be that she’s deemed them properly situated for her liking, because she finally lets him keep the pace at a heated simmer – lets him take her in with everything she deserves.

The sweet vice of her mouth, slick and hot and wonderful, doesn’t distract him from how her fingertips pull at the hair across his skin, or from the delicious sounds she makes every time he kisses her just right. It also can’t help him decide where to touch her ( _everywhere_ seems like a good place to start), and he swears he runs his fingers between her jawline and the soft tangle of her hair far too many times before he finally settles on sliding them down her collarbones to hook into the first button of her shirt. He might be perfectly content with simply kissing her forever, but the moment he undoes the last clasp, slides his hand up the bare expanse of her belly, the need to feel more jerks up his nerves with a sensation akin to pain.

Gooseflesh rises along the path of his touch, and with every time her muscles tense under his palm, he grows more and more certain that the heat coiling its way from every inch of his skin down into the space below his gut – it’s a shared thing.

This time, when she tugs away even as she cups his jaw in place, her tongue darting out between her swollen pink lips, the dark gleam in her eyes makes it all too clear that he was right: she’s done with indulgence.

“Come on,” she repeats, barely a whisper this time, and the thin, wanting sound propels him forward without any more convincing. He slips his grip between her free shoulder and her shirt, though that’s just about all he can do when she hauls herself up to sitting to shrug it off. Her hands go to the button of her jeans, so he tries to quell the throb of his pulse just enough to work on his own (carefully, of course; it’s ridiculous how hard he’s gotten from endless kissing and a few prolonged touches alone). Given her ribbing, he’s only too glad he’s managed to kick them off by the time she settles back under him, as all that matching lace is more than a little distracting.

“Did you know this would happen?” he asks quietly as he props himself up on an elbow, smiling at the faint blush that stains her cheeks, and curls a finger into the strap of her bra. He’s all for respectable reverence of undergarments – as respectable as an inspection of that nature can be, really – but it’s the sight of all that lovely pale skin against his sheets that has hunger gnawing low, beneath his last shred of clothing.

“No.”

“Are you sure, darling?” She casts him a look (though it loses a great deal of bite when cushioned by pillows from all sides). “It appears as though you’d come here knowing exactly what I was thinking, so it goes without saying you’d also known exactly what my answer would have been.”

“Don’t get used to it, buddy,” she tells him, and she reaches behind her back in a maneuver he suspects is meant to shut him up. “I don’t have enough matching underwear to keep this up forever.”

He hums, half in acceptance, half in pure appreciation when she gets the clasp loose. “I suppose I’ll just have to bear it.”

“What a saint.”

“I’m nothing of the sort,” he says, grinning widely – though him reaching over fill his palm with her breast, to rub this thumb over a pebbled nipple when she tosses that scrap of lace to the side, is far from an attempt to prove a point. She sighs with satisfaction, arching up to meet him, and the sound goes straight between his legs with an accuracy that almost has him buckling over. He does end up bending for a different reason, though.

It’s the best kind of torture, the feeling of her chest heaving, her body writhing beneath his mouth. He marks a wet trail down the side of her neck, continues where he shouldn’t have left off the last time he tasted the salt of her skin – down, down, latching onto a breast with a swirl of his tongue, a nip of his teeth. One set of her fingers finds its way into his, his anchor to keep him grounded in the moment despite the unbearable tautness coaxing its way through every muscle in his body with every quiet gasp that escapes her lips. That leaves him with one free hand to play with the lace at her hip, urging her legs to twitch apart wider. The lace between them is almost completely soaked though.

“Bloody hell, love.” She makes a noise that sounds almost like a laugh, but it’s cut off the moment he slips his fingers beneath, his groin tightening just as quickly at the slick feeling of her heat. He returns his mouth to her other breast and tries, in vain, he should think, from going mad, from losing himself entirely in the ache to simply sink himself inside. He knows, from personal experience now, that it’d be incredible beyond his wildest dreams, if this is what he gets for merely touching her. He slides between her folds, teasing and rubbing and coaxing out sound after wonderful sound, his thumb drawing tiny circles around the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs. It isn’t long before her hips begin to move with impatient need against his hand, and he obliges before his brain can catch up, curling one long finger inside slowly.

“ _Oh_ ,” she groans. When he looks up, her lashes are fluttering madly, her own free hand clenched so tightly in his sheets he’s surprised the one clasped around his hasn’t yet rendered him numb. The edges of his self-control fraying, he pulls out as carefully as he can, then sinks that same finger back inside her trembling quim, and the feeling of her around him hits, hot and _wanting_ , right below the belt, so to speak. He watches her back arch, her hips rising to meet him to the knuckle, and then her heavy-lidded eyes catch him in their dark green snare. “Killian.” It’s an expression of gratitude and a desperate plea, all in one. “Killian, _please_.”

The noise that escapes his throat is something that should probably embarrass him, but, as it is, he’s too preoccupied with letting her underwear settle back into place as he scrambles for his bedside drawer. Somehow, she manages to kick it off completely, to start at the waistband of his before he’s even managed to get the condom out of its foil package.

“Bloody— _fuck_ , Emma,” he bites out. She smiles a serene sort of torment, all innocence like her hand isn’t wrapped around him, curving gently as she slides her grip down. His boxers barely askew from his hips, he can only sit back on his haunches, his mind blanking but for the sensation of her palm around his cock.

 _Saints_. He needs to feel her.

“Come on.” It’s the last time she has to say it (though it’s a close thing, how he freezes the moment he registers her completely bare – the loveliest sight he’s ever seen); he gets rid of the last of his clothing, rolls the condom with shaky hands. Before he can resume his prior place over her, though, she pushes him back to sitting with a hand against his shoulder.

His mouth feels dry, even as he grins. “You know, somehow, this doesn’t surprise me.”

“Shut up,” she tells him, and she’s barely settled herself into his lap, hands clasped around the back of his neck, before she very effectively does it for him. One second, her hand is guiding his length into position, and he feels just the slightest hint of pressure from her quim; the next, she’s lowering herself down onto her knees, taking him deep without even the decency for preamble.

He hears himself groan, as if from somewhere far away, a sound that mixes with her sharp inhale in a way that’s pure music to his ears. She clenches him so perfectly on the slide down, wet and tight, that he needs a moment simply to breathe as he bottoms out, feels her legs clamp more firmly around his hips as she steadies herself, too. And then she’s moving, back and forth in his lap, her hips rolling to push him deeper with every labored thrust she doesn’t even bother to make gentle, or start slow at all, for that matter. The hot clasp of her body consumes every fiber of his being, his pulse pounding in his cock and in his throat as she fucks him, and he’s so caught up in the utter bliss that it pumps through his blood that he doesn’t even realize he’s wasting time until he feels her mouth tilt over his.

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s in no right state of mind for his lips to be moving properly, but perhaps his instincts have done something right when he tastes the vibrations of her moan. Or perhaps it’s just that he can feel her tightening in time with the coil of pleasure tensing to a point in his groin, pushing him closer and closer to the edge every time she sinks back down and buries him to the hilt. He slips a hand between them, pressing his thumb into where she’s opened up like a flower, and it takes just a second of coaxing for her to cry out against his lips at last. Everything is white-hot and stretched to the absolute cusp of breaking as her slick walls squeeze around him, fluttering with her release.

When he comes, it’s harder than he can ever remember, deep inside her, with his fingers clutched so rigidly against her hip, he’s almost afraid of leaving her with more than a pair of bruised lips.

It takes several long moments for the thick pulse of pleasure to subside, for its clouds to clear themselves from his hazy, lust-filled mind. He feels every pant she exhales over his cheek, her nose skimming a gentle line across his skin, and he swallows, tries to catch his breath enough to speak.

“Emma.”

When she opens her eyes, even in the new darkness of the room, he can see the lazy satiation glittering in them, clear as day. “Yeah?”

Those words from before – he’s glad to be able to say them now. “I wish I’d let you hear me perform earlier, too.” Her laugh is an exhausted, but no less pleased, thing, one he can feel more than the way she shifts over his still-tender flesh.

“Well,” she says, “now that I know where you play, I suspect you’re going to be able to make up for those regrets a lot sooner than you’d think.” Her fingers wind into the hair at the back of his head as he returns her grin. “But actually – speaking of which,” she frowns down at him, “where have you been keeping your guitar this past week? If you’ve been avoiding going to Robin’s?”

He shrugs, and it doesn’t bode well that the soreness is already starting to settle in there, since that probably means it’s starting to settle in everywhere. And he knows it’ll plague him _everywhere_. “At The Jolly,” he tells her. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten woefully out of practice, thanks to you.” He knows she’s aware he only means it in jest.

“Guess you’re going to have to put in a few extra hours later,” she says, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

“I suppose I could use a private audience for that, too.” She muffles her chuckle by kissing him again, wrapping her arms full around his neck to press her breasts flush against his chest. He might suspect her of trying to work him back up again, and he’s just about ready to pull away and accuse her of it, no less – except she’s barely a few seconds into it when a thin growl twists its way into the quiet air of the room.

He doesn’t realize exactly where it’s come from until he spies the redness creeping into her cheeks, long after he jumps and breaks the kiss, startled.

“Hungry?”

“It’s gotten late,” she says with a touch of defense in her not-quite pout.

“And you’ve certainly worked up an appetite.” If her punishment for his cheek is extricating herself from him, at last, and perching herself back down on the edge of the bed – well, the loss of her warmth might make him think twice about his words from now on.

Maybe.

(Probably not. The view is certainly something to be admired, and there’s also the fact that he only has to lean forward to feel it again, soft at the pulse of her wrist.)

“Dinner?” he suggests, and the corners of her lips curve in the darkness.

“You _did_ say that’d be a step up from doughnuts and cupcakes.” Against the mattress, she twists her hand to twist her fingers around his, and she glances at him over her shoulder. “Although you’d better be willing to put up with all of my failed attempts at cooking, if we’re staying in.” From her tone, he’d wager she has zero plans of letting either of them leave anytime soon, which is just as well.

“That won’t be a problem,” he tells her, in no uncertain terms. “It just so happens that I’ve only recently purchased a box of hot chocolate mix, of which I hear you’re something of an expert.”

He swears her smile would light up the room, if it could.

“That,” she says, leaning forward to kiss him again, “would be perfect.”

(It is.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, two-and-a-half years after the first chapter was posted -- Some Sort of Neighborly is finally finished! I’m still in a little disbelief, to be honest. Writing this story has been such a valuable lesson on persistence, and although I do wish this had happened a long time ago (since it definitely reads like I’d written it back then, too, thanks to my original outline O O P), I’m still very proud of being able to push through to the end :)
> 
> Whether you’ve been here from the start (in which case, I’M STILL VERY SORRY), or you’re picking up this fic for the first time just now, or you're anywhere in between: thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoy!

He wakes to the scent of clean linen and crisp air on his nose, which he buries into his pillow with a groan.

For a long moment, it’s all he can do to simply lie there, feeling the sheets tangled around his legs and the warm autumn sun, flickering gently through the curtains, on the bare skin of his back. Lazy mornings are both a welcome indulgence and a dangerous habit for someone with his sleep schedule, but the languid contentment that’s burrowed its way into his bones refuses to let up – or, for that matter, let him think about much else – even as he stretches and feels every muscle in his body hum with a pleasant ache.

Especially for his muddled mind, then, it’s difficult to pinpoint if he’s only awoken because he missed his alarm and slept halfway through the day – until a muffled, distressed voice smashes his peaceful bliss into bits.

“It’s just, sometimes – he can be such an _asshole_ , you know?”

He frowns, has more trouble than he should with simply rolling over. The warm realization of waking up in Emma’s bed – it’s never quite faded, and the glow that spreads through him still tugs a grin at the edges of his lips with ridiculous ease. Not quite as heartening, however: the sight of the other side of the bed, distinctly empty. But he probably should have anticipated it, if he’d been more awake, and he knows now that it’d be cool from her absence if he reached over and ran his hand over the sheets, since that voice through the door definitely wasn’t hers. He struggles to sit up (and it’s very clear that his stiffness is not born from lethargy, but from another much for enjoyable reason to recall), and begins the painful process of groping around on the floor for the first pair of sweatpants he can find.

(In his defense, they’d spent the majority of the previous day lounging around her apartment, and, by this point, he’s very aware of how she prefers her sweatpants so baggy they take entirely too long to remove.)

(He doesn’t even bother with locating a shirt, or anything else. He’s long past feigning modesty – and the afternoon Emma had come to his apartment for the first time, he’d taken that ring off his neck and never put it back on.)

When he pads out of the room barefoot, it takes a second to squint away the brightness streaming in through the windows and absorb the scene before him, much more distinct than the few scattered murmurs after that first outburst through the door.

Over in the kitchen, Emma doesn’t notice him right away, her back turned as she works with something over the stove. As it is, it seems like her attention is being held by a very elaborately gesturing Ruby anyway, her legs swinging off her chair at the breakfast bar as she waves a fork in a way that might make him worried if he were anywhere near her.

“I mean, who _does_ that?” Ruby demands, continuing what sounds like a long-standing tirade. “For all I knew, something could have happened to him. He could have been dead. He’s going to _wish_ he were dead, that— oh.” She cuts off as, apparently, the creak of the old wooden floor announces his presence more effectively than the sound of the bedroom door, and both of them turn to face him at once. “Oh, good, you’re here, Killian,” she rushes on. “You agree with me, right? Victor’s a huge dick.”

It really is a vast improvement from the way she used to greet him in the mornings when she happened to stop by (her knowing wolf’s smirk wouldn’t have been half as bad had it not been on top of her unnerving refusal to speak a word of his presence – at least while he was still there), but she still rolls her eyes from his bare chest back up to his face, as if to say _really?_ He can’t find it in him to care very much, though, considering the way Emma’s eyes light up the moment they meet his. Of all her smiles, it’s her tiny ones – pink, subtle, needing no reason at all – he wishes he could bottle up and collect in a jar, could save them to count every time he simply can’t imagine how he could have gotten so lucky.

She doesn’t speak, though – merely gestures her head over to Ruby behind her back, and he trades it for a knowing look of his own.

“You’re right,” he agrees. As he nears the kitchen, the delicious smell permeating the entire space makes sense: omelettes, one on the stove, one on the plate in front of Ruby. “Victor _is_ a huge dick. Is there any reason that fact bears particular repeating today?”

Emma snorts as she turns back to the stove, but he makes sure to press a kiss into her temple as he passes by on his way to the refrigerator, wishing he could linger there with his nose buried in the scent of her skin and her sweet-smelling shampoo. He’s learned his lesson, though. From that alone, or perhaps because she doesn’t quite appreciate his nonchalant attitude, Ruby rolls her eyes.

“He took an extra shift at the hospital last night. And he didn’t tell me, or answer his phone, or _anything_.” She groans suddenly. “Oh, god. What if he wasn’t even working?”

“Ruby, calm down,” Emma says without looking. “If _I_ already know too much about how crazy Victor is about you, then I’m pretty sure you know it, too.”

Killian hides his grin in rummaging around for the milk; he’s no stranger to her way of consoling Ruby (it reminds him a little too much of the bluntness he’s used to getting from his own friend next door), and even if he wasn’t, he’s heard enough about her post-honeymoon relationship, both first and secondhand, that he’s not very concerned, either. “He probably didn’t get a chance to check his phone,” he hedges helpfully. “You know how he gets at work.”

“But then why the hell couldn’t he have told me in the first place? I was _worried_.”

“I know,” Emma tells her with saint-like patience. “I know. But don’t you think you should be telling _him_ that?”

“He’s asleep.”

“When he wakes up.”

“Why?” There’s a soft _thud_ as he assumes Ruby lets her head fall into her elbows, evidenced by her muted voice following: “He deserves the same silent treatment he gave me.”

He glances over at Emma out of the corner of his gaze, and though she’s occupied with sliding another completed omelette onto a plate, she still sends him a tiny half-shrug. “If you really think he did it to hurt you, then sure,” she says, and then turns around to the other counter to face her friend. “But Rubes, look me in the eye and tell me you really think he wanted to make you upset.”

It takes a few seconds, which gives him the chance to stop trying to hide his expression and reach for the coffee pot instead, but Ruby seems to have finally relented by the time he leans back with a fresh mug between his hands. She’s still not looking at Emma, but at least he can see her face when she sighs a short, frustrated sigh.

“I can’t.”

“You love him, right?”

Ruby’s hackles seem to melt. Her brightly painted lips, not to be neglected even over the weekend, press together into a thin line that’s not quite a smile, but the look in her eyes tell a very different story: soft, faraway, the answer in them only too clear. He’s seen that same look before, he thinks – sometimes, when Emma smiles at him and his stomach flips over like he’s just a stranger blinking up at her from her couch again, but he won’t put a word to it until it comes out of her mouth.

“Yeah,” Ruby admits finally, as if she’s saying it for the first time – though he knows full well it isn’t. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then you’re going to have to find a way to forgive him,” Emma says simply. His chest swells with a quiet sort of pride; he might still be trying to caffeinate himself awake, but her astuteness (even if, at times, she needs a little push to direct it inward) never fails to astound him. He watches silently as Emma rests her hands on the counter with impressive stubbornness, as though she might be able to stare Ruby into looking up.

It works.

“Fine,” Ruby mutters. “I’ll talk to him.”

“What was that?”

“I know you heard me.” She slides off her seat, abandoning her half-eaten omelette on the counter, and fixes Emma with an expression caught between begrudging and grateful. “I’ll talk to him. But _don’t_ —” here, she directs ensuing her glare at him, as well “—tell him I was mad. Let me make sure he deserved it, first.”

“You know he didn’t,” Emma sighs. That seems to be good enough of a promise for Ruby, which means the full brunt of her sternness transfers solely to him, instead.

Killian draws a cross over his chest with a finger. “I’m sure he’d have had a good reason, anyway,” he adds, though she doesn’t look as convinced from his attempts at consolation as from Emma’s. “You truly can’t come up with a single explanation for why he might want to go behind your back to make a little extra money?”

Without warning, Ruby’s eyes widen so comedically, he might have laughed had Emma not turned to him with her mouth fallen open in equal shock. A brief silence engulfs her apartment. “No way.”

“But we’ve—” Ruby begins haltingly, with ill-repressed mounting hysteria. “It’s been over a year, I know, but—what the _fuck_ , you don’t think—?”

He must be duller than usual this morning for it to take him so long to understand her meaning, and the context behind Emma’s reaction in equal measure. Either way, he realizes in a flash, he’s a fool for opening his mouth in the first place. “No, wait,” he says quickly, “I don’t know anything for sure. I was merely suggesting—”

“Oh god, should I ask him?” Ruby appears as though she’s wont to start pacing with anxiety. “I shouldn’t ask him. I’d ruin the surprise, but what if he’s not actually buying a ring? What if—”

“ _Don’t_ ask him,” Killian tells her firmly. “He hasn’t said anything. _I_ didn’t say anything.”

Ruby hesitates, rocking back and forth on her heels in a manner that gives him the impression of a sprinter, ready to bolt. And, sure enough, his fears are realized when, at last, she speaks again. “I—I have to go. Thanks, guys.”

“Wait, Rubes—”

“Lass, don’t—”

But it’s too late. “I’ll let you know what happens,” Ruby promises them, and then she’s snatching her purse off the counter and out the door before he can blink.

He certainly spends a good moment afterwards making up for it, though, staring blankly at where she’d disappeared, a sinking feeling in his gut he knows has nothing to do with a lack of breakfast.

“Bloody hell. I didn’t just destroy their relationship, did I?”

The sound of Emma’s chuckle is, as always, a welcome relief, but it doesn’t quite sink in until she taps his wrist, nudges him out of the way of the coffee maker. “Don’t worry,” she reassures him. “They bounce back from a lot worse pretty much on a weekly basis.”

True as that may be, it’s with more than a little healthy skepticism that he twists to frown at her. “Does recovering from a faux pas of this nature not qualify as a little more than simply _bouncing back_?”

“No more than the usual. I mean,” she allows, “you did catch me a little off guard, but I don’t think it’ll come as much of a surprise to Victor, if she does ask him.

He snorts. “And just when did you become such a relationship guru?”

“Since I woke up at, like, eight-thirty to about fifty text messages in my inbox,” she says with a shake of her head. And then, without warning, she leans in on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Good morning, by the way.”

The feeling of her lips on his skin – it dissolves the remnants of his consternation quicker than he can grasp, and he can’t help that same ridiculous smile from earlier from making an unwarranted reappearance. Really, he should be used to this by now: since the onset of their relationship, he’s had more _good mornings_ than he can count, indeed. Plenty of good nights, too, and good afternoons, and every second in between – and yet, it’s the mornings he finds himself appreciating the most. There’s just something about starting the day at her side that fills him up, from waking up next to her to tallying traded bacon steals around the edge of the kitchen table, and he knows he’ll be swept up in the feeling for a long time to come.

“It’s much better than that, I’d wager,” he says lightly, grinning wider when she only glances up at him, confused. “A much better morning, I mean,” he clarifies. “It’s a much better morning than to have warranted just _that_.”

He spots the exact moment realization flickers through her mind, recognizes the familiar way she raises her eyebrows, her mouth curling at the edges. “I woke up at eight-thirty,” she reminds him. “It hasn’t been a very good morning for _me_.”

The small of his back pressed against the countertop, he ducks his head into her space so that she barely needs to twist to return his gaze at all. “Perhaps we might be able to remedy that.” She fixes him with a blatantly expectant stare, refuses to budge an inch even as she struggles to keep from smiling – so it’s only by leaning in closer that he finally manages to press his lips to hers.

It’s meant to be a chaste kiss, and he shouldn’t be so proud that it only barely misses that mark. He tastes toothpaste and brief bliss as her mouth moves against his, just once, but then he’s breaking away, lingering close enough to still feel the brush of her lips, of her breath, tingling across his skin.

“Good morning,” he murmurs. She makes a small noise he thinks might be one of agreement, and then she’s pressing forward to kiss him again. The clink of her mug on the counter reminds him, just in time, that he should probably also be taking precautions to avoid any pre-breakfast disasters, but the better reason for emptying his hands is that he has a much better use for them before he knows it. He slips his tongue into her mouth, feels the vibrations of her pleased hum as she shifts into his arms and between his legs, pushing him right up against the counter. He’s still following her gentle lead, despite the contrast between the kiss and her hands sliding up his bare chest, the soft press of her breasts, his own grip wandering backwards from her hips – and, sure enough, the heat doesn’t take long to go from a mild simmer to a full-on, hungry boil.

He slips underneath her (or perhaps his) t-shirt, his fingers digging below the waistband of her scarcely-used pajama shorts. The warmth of her body a testament to pure temptation, she smiles against his lips.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I’d say it’s definitely getting there, after all.”

* * *

Maybe she shouldn’t have goaded him.

 _Fuck_ , she thinks, her head falling back against the cabinets as he does that _thing_ again, the one with his tongue in that spot, just right. She definitely should have goaded him.

Beneath the weight of her knees over his shoulders, he shifts and presses his mouth more firmly into the space between her legs, drinking her up like he knows nothing but the taste of her aching heat. It’s not the most comfortable place they could have chosen (the goddamn couches are literally feet away), and it’s just about the least sanitary option at that, but she’ll worry about cleaning up for the prospect of breakfast later, when the coolness of the hard countertop is nothing compared to the flames licking their outward from her core to fill every tiny crevice of her body with a pulsing, white-hot glow. She arches against his lips, pushing him closer with a hand twisted into his hair, though the other is much needed to keep her balance as she lets her knees, caged around his head, fall open wider.

She’d think he was helping to keep her steady, securing her where she’s become as bare at the waist as he still is from the waist up – if he weren’t driving her to the brink of madness with every kiss, with every teasing drag of his clever tongue through her folds.

“Killian,” she sighs. He only responds by taking her swollen flesh between his lips, sucking until everything clenches and she sees the throb of stars. Her gasp comes out ragged, but his hum of satisfaction is smooth bliss against her, drives her even higher to the point that she thinks she might be hurting him, what with how solidly she’s pressed her heels into his back.

“Come on, love,” he urges her, the brief tremble of his breath spreading goosebumps across the insides of her thighs. And then he’s delving back in with a newly determined fervor, his clever tongue coaxing the pleasure out of her in a slick, tight burst of heat as every muscle in her body clenches outward and she falls – down, down, shaking with his name caught in her throat like a curse or a prayer.

(Probably both.)

(He’s _way_ too good at this.)

When she finally comes back to her senses, breathless, her bones feeling as though they’ve liquefied in the best possible way, the crooked set of his mouth is something _dangerous_ between her thighs. It takes her a second to extricate her legs from where they’re draped over his shoulders and her fingers from his now worse-than-usual bedhead, and a second longer still to speak, her voice a thin quiver.

“Good morning,” she concedes, returning his smile with feigned reluctance, and as soon as he’s back on his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, she’s wiggling to the edge of the counter and pulling him back in for another kiss. He sighs into it – the kiss feels like one long sigh of lazy contentment, soft and searching and unspeakably wonderful. Her mind still wrought with incoherence, she doesn’t even notice she’s hooked her ankles around the backs of his knees, pressing herself flush against him once more, until she shifts to wraps her arms full around his shoulders and _feels_ him, the thick ridge of his erection through his pants, between her thighs where she’s still tender and sensitive.

He grunts out an obscene sound as she rolls her hips, nips at her bottom lip in a way that stirs the beginnings of renewed desire in the pit of her belly. His hands start to travel upward beneath her shirt, forcing her to suck in a quick breath when his palm slips between them to test the weight of her breast, and she has just enough mental coherency to think that she’s perfectly justified in ignoring the way the side of his pants vibrate against her knee – until it happens again.

And again.

“Ignore it,” he murmurs against her lips before diving back in, but then his pants vibrate about ten more times (not that she could count them, exactly, though any number would have been ridiculous for sure), and he finally pulls away with a rough, frustrated groan. “What in blazes—”

She watches blearily as he yanks his phone out of his pocket (she’s pretty sure those sweatpants used to reside at the bottom of her closet, come to think of it), glares at the screen with dark blue eyes that seem to have trouble focusing.

“Bloody Dave.”

“What’s going on?” she asks, propping herself up with her hands against the countertop behind her, just to keep from slipping off entirely while his hands are otherwise preoccupied.

Killian shakes his head. “He wants to know whether we’re still willing to come help him and Mary Margaret set up for their sip and see in an hour.”

 _Shit_. She wrinkles her nose, for more reasons than one. “Please don’t call it that. How the hell is anyone supposed to know what that actually means?”

“Apologies, lass. A _newborn baby party_ , was it?” His imitation of her accent is so awful, she shoves him with her knee and a weak laugh.

“Mary Margaret’s newfound maternity vocabulary is rubbing off on you.”

He shrugs, unabashed, then throws her an impish look. “Shall I tell him we’re running a bit late, then?”

“Just a little late,” she agrees with a grin. The fingers of one of her hands hand wind themselves back into the hair at the back of his head, urging him to move faster as he types out a quick response.

“I’m going to have to meet you there, so I’ll actually have to be a tad later than that,” he tells her when he slips his phone back into his pocket. At the way she tilts her head, he explains, “I’ll need to stop by my place to pick up something clean to wear, surely. Unless your closet harbors more than just comfortable clothing in a size that won’t have me traumatizing poor Leo?”

“And Roland,” she adds. “And David, probably. But – don’t you have any more clean clothes here?”

She knows he’s commandeered at least a shelf in her closet (along with half the bathroom vanity, and her coffee trove seems to have suddenly found itself inundated with tea for when he’s feeling particularly British), so the pointed twist of his mouth isn’t particularly helpful. At least, until he says, “Somehow, it seems like I never quite get around to doing laundry whenever I’m here.”

And, well, she realizes with faint chagrin: it’s true. It’s only rarely that they’re ever hard-pressed for time together, and yet that time always feels far too short to be wasting on mundane things like chores – even if, she’s thoroughly unsurprised to find, she’d be perfectly content with spending any amount of time with him basking in the delights of ordinary life. He did teach her how to cook, after all, and it’s the quiet moments in between all the quips and teasing (often in the worst possible ways) she looks back on most fondly from all the months she’s spent relearning how to use her heart.

In the end, she might be able to chalk it up to all that talk of relationships, particularly of _moving forwards_ and _next steps_ , from earlier. She could blame the fact that she’s still a little light-headed and tremulous, and that the parts of her that haven’t stopped wanting him, from the waist down and everywhere – they can’t mask how much she wants him in other capacities, in _every_ capacity, too. But she knows her reasons are so much more than anything she can ascribe to a single feeling or word (or even unromantic spontaneity) when she says, finally: “Maybe you should bring the rest of your clothes here.”

He fixes her with a strange expression. “But then what would I wear if I had to change at home?”

“You should move the rest of your things here, too,” she says in a rush. “You should— you should move here. You should move in here, with me.”

His brow furrows, and she very nearly begins to worry for it – except she knows there’s never really anything to worry about at all, not when it comes to him. Sure enough, it doesn’t take long for his gaze to soften, from confusion to disbelief, in a way she’d have to be blind not to see, and to not have seen coming from miles and miles away.

“You really mean it, love?”

She huffs out a breath. “Is that a yes or—” The rest is cut off by his lips, surging forward to kiss her without restraint. She melts into it as quickly as her fake annoyance fades, tasting the brightness of his smile to the extent that, when they finally break apart several blissful moments later, she’s fairly certain she’s glowing for it.

“ _That_ ,” he breathes, a wisp of sweet warmth on her skin, “is a _resounding_ yes. I’d be honored to share your home, Swan.”

Despite everything, that still has her heart beating full and thick in her throat. She’s in the middle of trying to formulate a reply when, suddenly, he reaches somewhere behind her, and she jumps as he raps his knuckles against the wall under the kitchen cabinets.

“Hear that, Robin?” he says loudly, the white of his teeth gleaming. “We’re going to be neighbors.”

There’s a short second of silence, and then, a muffled grunt through the wall: “I’m moving.”

She laughs as Killian shakes his head. “He’s joking. Probably.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he was planning to move back in with Regina anyway,” she says.

“That traitor. Honestly,” he tells her, “now that I no longer need an excuse to break into the wrong apartment, he’s free to leave.”

She tries, in vain, to put on the best pointed look she can muster at the memory – softened at the edges as it is. “You were always pretty good at making a home for yourself here, weren’t you?”

His wide grin really is something to behold, and it forces her to bite her lip out of the smile she feels at the corners of her mouth.

“Aye, love.” He leans in, his blue eyes glinting with the kind of mischief she’s loved now for a long, long time. “I suppose,” he says cheerfully, “I always was.”


End file.
